Basic Space
by Lunar Chasmodai
Summary: Slash. Draco wants a distraction; Harry wants a release. They really shouldn't have had a problem with letting loose once in a while, but when it comes to The Boy Who Lived, there are always complications. M for smut and adult themes. HP/DM
1. Absolute Introduction

**Whoa. New fandom.  
**

**This is actually a cooperative effort on the part of myself and my friend Brouc. We're really more active on fictionpress, but we both have a sekrit!passion for Harry/Draco. So. Have some.**

* * *

For Draco, the lake was everything. From the peace it brought an awe-struck first year to the balm that soothed the anxiety of a tired seventh year, the lake had always been a place of peace and calm. He dangled his feet into the water, eyeing the water carefully for any sign of movement that would prompt him to yank his legs back.

"Malfoy."

The quiet, feminine voice startled him enough that he was on his feet, his wand loosely in his hand, in a couple of seconds.

Luna Lovegood peered up at him through strands of pale hair. "It's almost dinner time," she said. "You've been out here a while."

Draco had to consciously avert his eyes from the long, thin scar that marred the left side of the girl's face. He chose instead to focus on the disturbing clarity in her eyes and voice that he attributed to the war. There were few signs left of 'Loony' Lovegood.

"I'll be there in a minute," he mumbled, more to himself than to anyone else. His hand remained clasped around his wand, however, and his eyes darted from side to side.

Luna ambled calmly back in the direction of the castle.

Draco wasn't sure exactly when he'd started listening to what other people —especially people like that ditz Luna— asked of him. He only became aware of it a few days ago, when he'd returned to Hogwarts to finish the rest of his schooling.

He'd become _docile_.

The thought made him cringe. The thought of what his _father_ would think brought about tendrils of nausea that curled around his stomach and squeezed.

Luna glanced over her shoulder. "Are you coming?" she inquired. "You're dawdling."

He refused to meet her eyes. "I'm coming," he said quickly. "Sorry."

_Apologising, Draco? Tut tut. What have they **done** to you?_

Luna traipsed across the lawn, down the corridors, to the Great Hall. She'd glance back every so often to make sure he was following. Her white-blonde hair glowed in the dimness, making it easy to follow her, even though Malfoy knew the way by heart.

He knew a lot of things by heart. _If you twist this way, precise and careful, they'll never walk again..._

"Stop it," he begged quietly. "Please."

_Begging now? What sort of Malfoy are you?_

He squeezed his eyes shut and stopped walking, fighting the urge to just curl up in the middle of the corridor.

Luna fell back to walk beside him. "Are you all right?" she asked, tilting her head to one side, arching one pale eyebrow so high it seemed to disappear off her face. "You're being awfully quiet. It isn't like you."

Thankfully, Draco didn't have to answer, as they then walked into the Great Hall, and any further conversation would have been drowned out by the thrum of conversations.

The two separated at their respective tables. Draco was almost positive Luna patted his shoulder, but by the time he turned around, she was already halfway down the table, sliding into a spot between Anthony and Padma.

The Slytherin table was mostly empty. In fact, most of the Great Hall was empty: while each house had once filled the tables, now only half the seats were taken. Ravenclaw —the largest house— was only three quarters full.

Draco quashed another swell of nausea. He couldn't glance up at the staff table, even as he slipped into a seat, nodding quickly at Blaise.

Blaise nodded back, distracted. His dark eyes were unfocused, staring off into space. In fact, many of the students —_'Especially the Slytherins_,' Draco thought coldly— were staring off into space. Like shell shock.

It wasn't really surprising. One of Draco's nannies when he was younger had a passion for Muggle psychology. She'd spoken about shell-shock, a synonym for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Draco figured easily half their year was suffering it to some degree.

"Can you..." Pansy trailed off, pale hand groping for the pumpkin juice. "I...want that..." She blinked, then leaned over and grabbed it herself. "Thanks for all your _help_," she sneered, glowering at Goyle.

Goyle grunted in his typical manner, his mouth stuffed with _something_ dripping with grease as per usual.

Draco fussed for a moment, dishing food onto his plate. He wasn't sure what he put on there.

Minerva McGonagall took her place behind the podium. "Welcome back, returning students," she said, in her usual, crisp voice. Draco didn't look up at her: he was sure she had grown older over the summer, shriveled and small, and he was content to pretend that none of the past six months had happened.

Seeing her —objective and concrete— would make it all real.

Draco's sole purpose was to keep it _not_ real. He didn't think he was strong enough to face the reality that the last six months had happened.

He wasn't ready to, not yet, anyway.

"All students will report to their dorms immediately," the headmistress said. Draco's eyes still traced the edge of his plate. "Your lessons will begin tomorrow."

Draco stood quickly, eager to beat the rush. As he rose, his eyes flickered over the Gryffindor table.

Granger was slipping into her customary spot between Potter and Weasley. Potter looked on edge, but Draco supposed that was understandable. He hesitated a little, trying to avoid having to walk past them. Finally, he wrapped his arms around his skinny body and stomped towards the doors.

"Bye Draco!" chirped Luna as he passed. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her waving enthusiastically.

He didn't wave back.

Luna didn't look at all discouraged.

* * *

Back in the dormitory, Draco took care to make it to his bed and draw the hangings as quickly as possible.

A shower could be taken care of in the morning. Less people. Not that there were all that many to begin with, but showering was best taken care of alone.

All around him, voices chattered in a flurry of excitement. Bed springs squeaked as people sat down on them. Trunks flipped open with a series of clunks.

Draco didn't feel like talking, squeaking, or unpacking. He curled up on his neatly-made bed and stared at the drapery.

It was familiar and should have been comforting. Draco knew it was _him _rather than anything the room might have done or had done to it.

That didn't make it any better.

Goyle poked his head through the drapes. "You should come down to the common room," he said. "Just staying up here alone...gonna kill you, mate."

Draco didn't particularly feel like even mustering the effort to reply, but he offered a curt nod. "I'll be down in a few minutes, Goyle. Let me settle."

Shrugging, Goyle left Malfoy to his solitude.

* * *

Potions with the Gryffindors proved very taxing for Draco Malfoy. Sardonically, he commended the school for "fostering house unity," even though this was a blatant lie: there weren't enough students to fill all the classrooms, so almost every class was mixed.

At least it wasn't as bad as Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs. It seemed that only the intolerably annoying ones managed to survive the war.

"We will be brewing a more complicated version of calming droughts today," announced the new potions teacher in a hefty Maltese accent. She had a pointed nose and a rat's nest of green hair on her head. "We're starting off the year easy, so that you might become reaccustomed to being in an educational environment."

Draco had a sneaking suspicion that there was just a considerable demand for calming droughts.

"Don't work with someone from your own house," the professor said. She clapped her hands a few times, trying to garner the attention of the more spaced-out students. "We're trying to encourage inter-house communication."

No one moved.

"_Now_."

Awkwardly, the students began to shuffle around the room, rearranging themselves in mixed pairs. A few of the Slytherins had acquaintances in Gryffindor and showed obvious relief in having someone they knew to sit with. Malfoy, having no such luck, was resigned to wandering around, trying to find someone somewhat friendly to sit with.

He defined friendly as not giving him a look designed to peel off his flesh.

"You'll have to work with me," the professor grumbled. "Which is effectively working alone. Perhaps you can help me demonstrate to the class?"

"I'm capable of working alone," Draco replied shortly.

The woman's shoulder slumped. "Okay, but only until—"

At that exact moment, the doors flew open, and in stumbled a very disoriented Harry Potter. "I apologize," he said quickly, smoothing down his hair. "I got lost. Potions is usually in the dungeons."

"You can work with him!" the teacher exclaimed, pointing, upon seeing Potter's Gryffindor robes. Draco wanted to hit her. "There. You have a partner now."

From the back of the room, snickers.

"I don't know that that is a good idea, Professor," Potter began, but the professor in question cut him off with a sharp glance. The Boy Wonder slumped and trudged over to stand in the same vicinity as Draco, apparently still the same self righteous twat, assuming himself above the rules, that he had been last year. Just a little older. And a little more attractive.

Draco shifted awkwardly away.

Potter didn't meet his eyes, just slung his bag under the bench and glanced up at the board, taking note of the potion they were supposed to be making.

"Remember everyone," crowed the teacher, adjusting the mess of hair on her head until it stopped tilting to one side, "we want a nice coriander colour. I know a lot of you end up with puce and we _do not want puce in this classroom_."

Draco was satisfied with the way Potter flinched.

"She's batty," he muttered, setting his book to the side of the bench. "I'll go get the ingredients."

Draco watched as the other boy shuffled off. He refused to refer to it as ogling.

Harry came back with an armful of roots and powders. He sat down —back straight and eyes trained on the cauldron— and began chopping what looked like a dried out ginger root.

"You could help you know," Potter growled. "For someone who's so _good_ at potions, you can be kind of useless."

That biting tone was new. Draco wondered if it was just another side effect of war. He did it well considering how new it was.

Draco didn't even remember to reply, just reached for the lavender flowers and started crushing them.

The potions mistress wandered around, critiquing them with her sharp eyes. She descended on Draco and Potter. "You are doing such a lovely job, Mr. Potter," she crowed, petting Potter's shoulder with three spindly fingers. He looked pained, and Draco wondered if it was a deep suffering, or just the sort of pain anyone would feel at being touched by the pointy-nosed witch.

Then he realized just how much wondering Potter was making him do, and he returned to crushing lavender flowers.

"Not so hard," the professor scolded. "You're murdering them."

"They're already dead," Draco murmured to himself as she glared at him with beady eyes and then moved on to the next table.

Potter made an amused sound, clearly having heard him.

Draco stamped down the flush he could feel rising in his cheeks. "Get on with it, Potter," he snapped.

Rolling his eyes, Potter dumped the unidentified root into the cauldron and began to stir as per the directions: six times clockwise, once anti-clockwise, repeat. Even if the batty Maltese woman had claimed the potion as a calming draught, it didn't look like any calming draught Draco had ever brewed.

And Potter was _staring_ again.

Draco could feel his hands start to itch like they always did when he got worked up, and concentrated on finishing the lavender flowers, shoving them to the side and measuring out some powdered garlic. What the hell garlic was going to do in a calming draught, he didn't know.

"Do you think you could work a little faster, Malfoy?" Potter sneered sarcastically. He scooped the lavender flowers into the cauldron, and the potion turned an appropriate yellow-grey.

The flush rose a little and Draco gritted his teeth. "Of course, Potter," he drawled. "Wouldn't want to keep _his highness_ waiting, would I?" He tipped the powdered garlic into the cauldron with a sarcastic smile.

"Do you always give inanimate objects formal titles, or is this cauldron special?"

Draco gritted his teeth harder. "Get on with the potion, Potter." He sliced another unidentified root into thin rings.

A few students nearby snickered.

Potter picked up a ring, looked at it disdainfully, and dropped it into the cauldron.

"I've seen Muggleborn first years cut better than this."

Draco seethed quietly, despite the urge to take the knife and cut that smug smile right off Potter's face. He began to crush the scarab beetles methodically. Each one wore Potter's face.

Potter tapped his foot impatiently, his eyes tracing the movements of Draco's hands has he smashed the iridescent shells of the insects. The potion, the colour of fresh mint leaves, bubbled along tranquilly.

"Growing old here, Malfoy. Got a bit of arthiritis there, have you?"

Draco pursed his lips and looked back down at the fractured beetle wings. He said nothing, just brushed them into his hands and dumped them unceremoniously into the cauldron.

Potter stirred the potion, six counter clockwise, two clockwise, another two counter clockwise and then six more clockwise.

Draco had no idea what kind of potion they were making anymore.

"Excellent work!" cried the professor. And then something in Maltese. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, if you could just follow Harry's _glistening_ example..." She trotted away, swishing her hips back and forth.

Potter looked up from the potion. It had turned the appropriate colour, and he had stopped stirring. "You look a little green. Not going to pass out, are you?"

"No," Draco snapped. He stepped towards the cauldron, ladled some into two vials and slapped one into Potter's hand. "Go preen under your newest admirer's _adoring_ gaze," he spat, turning to clean up.

Potter peered at the vial and set it down before helping Draco tidy up the station. Not so much help, rather, but attempt the same task at the same time. "She's wicked mad," he said. "And I don't want to do anything under her, preen or otherwise."

Draco shuddered at the sudden mental image he got. He was disturbed by it as a whole, but also disturbed at the small flutter his stomach gave at the idea of a naked Potter.

He told himself he felt ill. That's all.

Potter stood. "I'll go give this to Professor Spiteri." He shuffled towards the front of the room, catching up to the witch halfway there.

Draco couldn't hear the words exchanged, but she looked inordinately pleased.

"Class!" she called, clapping her hands. "We have a perfect example!"

As if a dozen spotlights had been trained on him, Potter shrunk.

Draco took a vindictive pleasure in the other boy's discomfort. It made that fluttery feeling in his belly go away and anything that did that was fine by him.

Spiteri beamed at Potter. "Mr. Potter here has just handed up a perfect example. Note the perfect shade of coriander. No puce." She held up the vial for the class to see.

Upon receiving only murmurs in response, she wrinkled her nose and stamped her foot hard on the classroom floor.

"I said, _no puce_."

This time, the Gryffindors managed some weak applause.

Potter slunk back to his seat, head down.

Draco was flabbergasted. "She's nuts."

"You don't say." Potter almost whimpered, sliding down as far as he could.

The rest of the class scowled and returned to their potions.

Draco shifted uncomfortably. Damn Potter, for being both attractive and despicable.

Damn him to Hell.

* * *

**This story? Going to be epic. No idea how long it'll be, but it's going to be epic. 100k+ epic. And with this comes good news and bad news.**

**Bad news: We're college students. And college students tend to be distracted.****  
Good news: We're in different hemispheres. So our summers don't coincide. Yay for no dry spell.**

**To be completely honest, there's going to be a lot of explicit sex in this. And soon. Simply because we're not the sort who are like, 'oooh, let's have happily ever after and tentative kisses and gentle...anything.' Nope. Smut and sex and borderline kink before love. Probably not any explicit non-con though.  
**

**All for the purpose of plot, of course.  
**

**We want your delicious reviews.  
**


	2. The Neck Turns 180 Degrees

**In case someone got really confused as to the nature of this site: this is by Brouc and Chasmo. Not J.K. Rowling.  
I guess Spiteri belongs to us. She's a crazy Maltese paedo though, so I don't know that anyone else would want her.**

**Brouc would like to add, in her defence, that Maltese and paedo are not synonymous. Just go well together. (:  
Also, she is part Maltese.**

* * *

Draco sat in the Slytherin common room, peering down at the assigned reading for potions. People milled about him on all sides, talking amongst themselves, eyes flicking over the room. On the surface, it looked like old friends catching up after a dramatic and trying summer.

He knew better. They were taking stock: the dead, the defected, and the rest.

It was the Slytherin way, always had been, and it unsettled Draco to find that despite the familiarity of it, he wasn't comforted.

He looked up from the words swimming before his eyes, and searched the room. He wasn't quite sure what for.

Pansy stood against one of the stone walls. She drooped to one side like a wilting flower, mouth set into a fierce scowl. A few of the others —the more astute, perhaps, or just self-preserving— gave her a wide berth, even though she wasn't the only one staring into space.

Her fingers tapped against the stone.

Draco shut his book and wandered over to her. "Hi Pansy," he said quietly, joining her pressed against the wall.

For a minute, it looked like she was staring right through him, before her eyes snapped into focus. "Hi." Her lips curved into a smile that dared not touch her eyes.

It was nothing like the smile Draco remembered from first year. He slapped the nostalgia away, buried it beneath a flood of indifference. There was a strange pang, in his chest. He buried that too.

"How were your classes?"

The half-smile turned sarcastic. "You were in them."

"Oh. Yeah."

Draco hated how small his voice had become. It was hardly appropriate for a Malfoy, after all.

"Potter schooled you in potions," she said after a minute.

Despite his scowl, Draco breathed a sigh of relief. That tone sounded so familiar on Pansy, unlike the spacey, distant voice she'd picked up that summer.

"I was distracted," he said stiffly.

Pansy snorted. "And Potter was still a thousand times more on the ball than you. That's more than distraction, Draco."

Draco glared sideways at her. "We're all distracted, Pansy." He folded his hands into fists until his nails bit into the smooth skin of his palm. They were all distracted. It was a permanent state of being. "_Potter_ just happens to be better at faking it."

Pansy seemed to accept that.

The two sat in a silence that was halfway to comfortable for a while.

"Things are different now." Pansy's voice was quiet.

Draco looked at her out of the corner of his eye, instinct telling him not to spook her by making a big deal of it. "Oh?" Was all he said.

She didn't continue, though, just stared out at the common room with an odd blankness in her eyes that frightened Draco a little.

"I'm going to try and get some sleep," he said finally, even though it was only half past ten and a year ago he would have considered this "early evening."

Pansy waved at him with the tips of three fingers before turning and collapsing onto one of the sleek green armchairs. "Good night Draco."

"Night, Pansy."

He didn't look back at the common room, he just shut the door behind him, crawled onto his bed, spelled the hangings shut and buried his face in his pillow.

Sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

The next morning passed in a blur.

In fact, it seemed like every morning passed in a blur.

Draco walked through the halls amid groups of other silent Slytherins, head down, arms crossed, mouths set into firm, scowling lines. A few of the others attempted conversation amongst themselves, but it was hushed and uninspired.

It was halfway to Transfiguration that Draco slammed into a warm, hard body.

Rage swelled in his stomach before he even had a chance to realise what'd happened.

"You _idiot_!" he barked, whirling around, his wand already in his hand. He didn't even know if he'd registered it as a threat. He didn't know much, really, aside from the hot rush of fury that was melting his insides.

He met Potter's bewildered green eyes as the other boy backed away, stumbling. He knew his own would be flashing in a way that had cowed many an opponent. The thought sent a surge of vindictive pleasure right through his chest.

There was a single flash of anger in Potter's eyes that broke the bewilderment and something in Draco snapped. He didn't even consciously recognise the incantation he snarled, but a bolt of ice-blue magic left the tip of his wand.

The ease with which Potter swatted it away incensed him even further.

Without thinking, Draco hurled a nasty hex in Potter's direction —it was deflected, but he barely noticed that much— before abandoning magic and principles and _Malfoy's are _above_ fist fighting_ to slam into Harry Potter's midsection with as much force as he could muster.

Potter flew backwards a few feet and crashed to the stone floor. Draco barely heard the gasps and cries of the students around them over the pounding of blood in his ears.

He met Potter's furious eyes and barely raised a shield in time to deflect a stunner.

Potter scrambled to his feet, wand still raised. He advanced on Draco, and Draco was prepared for _everything_ —Expelliarmus, it was always Expelliarmus— except the unusually swift kick to the stomach he'd received.

Wand cast out of his hand, Draco realized it was a foolish idea to get into a fistfight with someone raised fighting without magic.

"_What is the meaning of this?_"

Draco's fury abruptly drained away at the sound of Professor Spiteri's accent. The ratty looking woman was looking at them, aghast.

"You can't be fighting!" she cried, horrified.

Potter, who was haphazardly straddling Draco's hips and halfway through a second punch, looked alarmed. He opened his mouth to argue but, Draco realized with satisfaction despite his bleeding nose, there was really nothing to say.

The green-haired witch slumped. "Detention," she said finally. "Tonight. Tomorrow night. You'll be cleaning the potions room. I really didn't have to do this, Harry, but there's simply no alternative. You're on the same side now." She clicked her tongue dismally.

Potter snarled something incomprehensible but got off of Draco, collected his bookbag from the floor and strode off, not even looking back.

Draco was shocked into silence. "Bad boy," Spiteri scolded before shuffling off, ordering the loitering students to class.

Dusting himself off, Draco climbed to his feet. He scowled at the few remaining students —mostly Slytherin— who dared to stare at him. "Piss off," he hissed.

When they complied, the only person standing there still was Bletchley.

"Your nose is bleeding," he said. "You look like shit."

And then he was gone, and Draco was left alone in the hallway.

He slammed his fist into his own thigh, slung his bag onto his shoulder and sank to the ground against the wall.

It disturbed him that he recognised the urge to cry easily.

A pair of bright yellow walking shoes stopped in front of him. He didn't look up past the tangerine and gridelin socks.

"Your nose is bleeding," Luna said. "I ran into Harry and he said he punched you in the face. I think he feels kind of bad."

"So he should," Draco muttered. Not petulantly, Malfoys don't _do_ petulant. He fancied he could hear Luna roll her eyes, as ridiculous as that was. "You make me think ridiculous things," he said, and frowned.

Luna tilted her head to one side and blinked owlishly. "Did you bump your head?" she asked. "Maybe you should go see Madame Pomfrey. You seem to be a bit out of it."

"Coming from you? I'm worried."

Luna grabbed his hand and hauled him up and onto his feet. "Don't worry," she said cheerfully. "It'll give you wrinkles."

Draco's jaw dropped and he stared at her blankly. She giggled and dropped his hand, dancing off down the corridor.

Left alone again, Draco headed back down towards Slytherin. Some stress relief was in order. Serious order.

* * *

Professor Spiteri's classroom felt like a furnace.

Draco stood in the centre of the room, flicking his eyes around aimlessly. She appeared to have no organizational system for anything— not books, not ingredients, not even the desks. Had this been Snape's classroom, he would have assumed it to be ransacked.

"Malfoy."

Potter stood in the door way, arms crossed, bits of hair hanging in front of his green eyes.

Draco shifted uncomfortably.

"You're an ass." It was said bluntly.

Draco waited, but nothing else came. Potter sat a few desks away.

"This is going to be torture," Draco murmured to himself, fighting the urge to let his head fall onto the desk.

"Welcome, boys!" came the cheerful greeting as Spiteri appeared in the doorway. She zipped over to Draco and plucked his wand from his hand. He stared blankly before giving into the urge.

"It's so hot in here," he grumbled against the wood. Beads of sweat had already pricked up on his milk-white skin, making him fidget uncomfortably in his robes. The cloth chafed.

"It's all those layers," said Spiteri. "Harry, if you're uncomfortable, perhaps you should take off those robes."

Draco slapped the desk with the flat of his hand, face still pressed against the surface. The wood was cool. "Can we get on with this?"

"Mister Malfoy, I'd like you to organise my storage cupboards in alphabetical order. Harry, I'd like you to clean the cauldrons for me."

Harry's face dropped. Draco fought back a gleeful smirk, but it died anyway, the second he looked at the storage cupboards.

"Well, fuck."

Spiteri stood in the doorway. "I have many things to do," she said. Her hefty Maltese accent made Draco want to do all sorts of irrational things. Such as leave. "I'll check in on you soon."

Potter was ignoring her, scrubbing at one of the cauldrons. He'd taken Spiteri's advice and taken off his robes, and the bones of his spine poked through the thin material of his black tee-shirt. Draco's eyes traced the movements of Potter's muscles, stretching and contracting as he scrubbed at the cauldron. His breath came in sharp pants, and he wiped slick sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Draco hissed under his breath and accidentally knocked over a jar of Murtlap essence.

A string of curses left his mouth, but he saw the smirk that lifted Potter's lips.

"Fuck you too, Potter," he snarled quietly, ignoring how crazy it was to be muttering to oneself this much. The mental image that accompanied, though, nearly killed him.

For all the wrong reasons.

Potter set the cauldron on its three legs and wandered over. "Here." He held out the rag he'd been using to scrub. "Have a rag."

Draco took it, sneering half-heartedly. He mopped up the Murtlap and rocked back on his knees.

Potter continued to scrub cauldrons and sweat. Draco steadfastly continued to refuse to watch him.

"Are you almost done?" Potter called, after about ten minutes. The scraping sound of rag on metal had ceased. "Because I'm done, and the sooner you're done the sooner we can leave."

Draco simmered. Of course Spiteri would give Potter the _easy_ job.

"Not even close," he barked back. He surveyed the stacks of roots and flowers and powders. "Half of these aren't even labeled."

He heard Potter pad into the tiny storage closet. "This is a mess," he mumbled.

"No shit," Draco bit back. "You going to help me or not?"

Potter picked up one of the unmarked vials. He sloshed the vial of silver liquid back and forth. "This is a kind of appetite suppressant. Have you been sorting by name or function?"

"Name," Draco said grudgingly. "She said alphabetical order, and everyone words purposes differently. Names are universal."

Potter looked at him thoughtfully. "Good point. This would go under M, I think. Can't remember the actual name. I know it starts with M."

He handed the vial over to Draco.

Their fingers brushed.

Draco promptly dropped it.

Potter smirked. "Butter fingers there, Malfoy?"

"I'll break your fingers," Draco muttered mutinously.

Potter laughed out loud. Draco thought Spiteri was going to spontaneously combust then and there.

As it so happened, she didn't. She did, however, spill tea on herself. Had Draco known this, he would have smiled.

He didn't.

"Let's just finish this." He picked up the Murtlap-soaked rag and dabbed helplessly at the silver liquid. It moved away from him, and he found himself pouncing on it in an attempt to absorb it with the rag.

_Fuck_.

Potter laughed again. Draco heard the Spiteri giggle girlishly inside his head and gritted his teeth.

"Like this," Potter said. "That potion's kind of weird." He picked up an empty mason jar and climbed onto the floor. He rested on his forearms, eyeing the silver sludge that had crept underneath a crate.

Draco alternated between staring at the crate and staring at Harry.

He felt suddenly queasy.

"Come help me," Potter said. "I need you to move the crate so I can get in front of the shelving. It likes dark places."

Scowling, Draco tugged on the crate. It didn't even budge. "It's stuck, Potter. You're the one who dropped the stupid potion...animal thing."

"Actually, you dropped it," Potter pointed out, and Draco bristled. "Okay. Get down on the floor with that broom and poke at it. It'll make a run for the shelving, I'll catch it. Or most of it. Spiteri can deal with the rest later."

Draco sneered. "I'm not getting on a the ground."

Potter's head snapped up at him and he bared his teeth at the blond boy. "We'll be here all night. You don't think Spiteri will notice a chirping blob of potion under this crate?"

Draco picked up the broom mutely and knelt, using it to jab at the silvery _thing_.

Squeaking, it trundled out from under the crate, tripping over its own undulating form as it sprinted towards the shelving. Potter moved quickly, slapping the mason jar over it as it passed. He coaxed the lid beneath it and sealed the unusual substance inside.

"Let's not drop anything else, okay Malfoy?"

The foreign feeling of a blush rose in Draco's cheeks.

He wanted to kill something. Preferably the smirking, damnably attractive Potter who was looking at him for all the world like a concerned bystander.

It wasn't like he hadn't noticed that Potter was attractive before. Somewhere in his eleven-year-old mind, even, he'd decided that the then-scrawny boy was magnetic. Somewhere around fourth year, Potter had joined the line-ups of faces to appear in Draco's late-night fantasies. It was by sheer proximity that the aforementioned fantasies were becoming drastically more Potter-themed.

Maybe it was because Potter wasn't _dead_.

Draco shook his head, trying to derail that train of thought before it got too much steam. Fucking Bletchley. It was his fault.

Draco liked blaming Bletchley, when he could. It made everything a little easier to understand.

Potter was standing in the centre of the mess, hands moving lightning-quick to rearrange the bottles and vials and jars. He wrapped a bunch of flowers in the rag on which they sat and handed the bundle to Draco. "That goes down by the yew in Y. Don't touch the flowers."

"I know not to touch the flowers," Draco bit back. He shuffled down to make space between two boxes, next to the yew. "I'm not an _idiot_."

_You've certainly been acting like one, Draco,_ the silky smooth voice said in his ear. Draco swallowed a groan. _What'll be next, throwing yourself at him?_

"Shut the fuck up," he hissed furiously, so low Potter hopefully couldn't make it out.

Apparently Potter did hear him, because he snorted loudly and clinked a couple of vials together as he expertly rearranged them. "Just take care of M through Z. I think I can get this part done. And then we'll be _done_ and I can _sleep_ and I don't have to deal with _you_ any more."

Draco swallowed briefly as the words hit. They were soon swallowed in turn by the words from his own head.

_fool boy... pathetic... disgrace to the Malfoy line, should've drowned you at birth..._

Next thing Draco knew, Potter was shaking him by the shoulder. "Malfoy? Hello?"

Draco wriggled away. "Don't touch me," he hissed. "I don't need your pity."

"You eyes _rolled back in your head_," Potter growled back. "It's just detention. It's not going to kill you."

Draco shuddered. He knew it was getting worse, but hadn't realised it was at that stage yet.

He ignored Potter and shoved a pot of rosemary in with the rest of the R section, absently straightening the jar of myrrh.

"Fine. Hiss and spit. Very nice, Linda Blair."

Draco did not know who Linda Blair was, so he did not justify the remark with a response.

Potter slid a package of frankincense into place and turned to Draco. "I'm done, and leaving," he said simply. "You can finish up."

"But this is going to take me hours," Draco said. "You can't _leave_, Potter, I'm going to be stuck here all night."

Potter snorted. "You attacked me in a hallway. Because _you_ weren't watching where you were going. I should have left when I finished the cauldrons."

He strode from the room, leaving Draco in the storage closet alone.

_Stupid boy, you can't even alphabetize_.

* * *

**Whoa. Update?**

**If people seem OoC, there's probably a reason behind it. All in good time, my friends.  
Lots of drama to come. And such.**


	3. Mirror Mirror: Pressed Against a Wall

**Hey guys. So, there's some sexual...ness in this chapter. Yes, hot and heavy in chapter 3. No, no declarations of love.  
Fair warning.**

* * *

Draco picked his way through the underbrush to the edge of the lake. He wriggled his toes inside his shoes, perched on a misshapen rock, and peered into the glassy black water before him.

Lake. Not Potter, not Pansy, not war and not dead. Just a lake.

He picked up a small stone and threw it at the surface of the dark water. It swallowed the stone whole, without leaving so much as a ripple. Despite the wind, nothing but the leaves on the trees seemed to move at all. The top of the water stayed still as shades of black —black-blacker-blackest— undulated beneath it.

"Sulking, Draco?"

Draco would never admit he had flinched. "What do you want, Bletchley?"

"Bletchley?" Miles emerged to stand on the shore of the lake, shoes leaving deep footprints in the pebbly sand. "So formal, Draco. You hurt my feelings."

Though he opened his mouth —to speak, to justify, to respond in some way— Draco said nothing. He looked down, instead, at his palms. They were scabbed and bleeding and he picked absently at the skin and they oozed red, red blood. Better to look at that than to look at grinning Bletchley.

Bletchley never stopped grinning.

"Your _feelings_ are irrelevant," Draco said finally. "Go away, Bletchely. I have nothing to say to you."

That invasion of privacy, of the boundaries of the inlet of the lake and the shelter of trees, made him feel queasy.

"I'm not going away, _Draco_," Bletchley drawled. "And here I thought we could pick up where we left off."

"No. There's nothing to pick up."

Bletchely swaggered over, standing between Draco and the dark mirror of slowly shifting water. "Oh come now. I know you share your bed with half our year. Granted, most of them are dead now, but—"

"Stop. Talking."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot your little _boyfriend_ died right along with them." Bletchley flicked a strand of hair from his face dismissively. "I kind of liked Nott. He was a hell of a lot smarter than you, and he—"

"Don't." Draco made his hands bleed. They stung. He didn't care. "Don't talk about him in front of me."

"Draco _loves_ Theodore," Bletchley taunted. "But wait, that doesn't matter any more because Theodore is dead."

Glowering, Draco drew his wand and pointed it at Miles. "Don't. Talk. About. Him."

Bletchley never was very good at following instructions.

"Did you ever tell him you were—"

Bletchley never finished that sentence. Wordlessly, Draco cast the first hex that came to mind —Knee-reversal, which was petty but effective— and took two steps back. His body shook with fury.

"_Don't_."

He stormed off, leaving Bletchley stumbling over himself on th banks of the mirror-black lake.

* * *

Draco zigzagged the broom, steering with his thighs while he tossed a small rubber ball from hand to hand.

He tossed the ball up a few moments later, Vanished it in mid air and slid his wand back into his wrist holster. Hovering for a moment, he dove into the standard Seeking drills, dives and sharp turns and brief spurts of speed.

When Draco finally brought his broom to a halt, hanging in the air above the pitch, he could see a mass of people congealing just outside Hogsmeade. There had to be three hundred of them, dressed in long, black cloaks that made his stomach turn.

Surely not. No death eater would be so stupid as to riot in _Hogsmeade_ of all places, not in broad daylight.

His chest tightened, there was a chill starting at his fingertips that urged him to get down on the ground. He found he couldn't move though, when he saw three figures running towards Hogsmeade, from the direction of the castle.

Draco's stomach felt like lead as he recognised Weasley's hair, even from this distance. That meant the bushy mane was Granger, which made the dark hair Potter.

For a second, he entertained the notion that they were all death eaters, and that Harry Potter was going to assume the Dark Lord's place.

Realizing this was stupid, Draco hovered on his broom a minute longer before descending back towards the green. He tripped over his own feet as he ran for the castle. Only because it had begun to rain, he told himself, and no self-respecting Malfoy would be caught dead in the rain.

Not because he was afraid. Never that.

He ran the whole way back to the entrance hall and found himself face to face with that bloody Professor Spiteri, who looked at him curiously, and Professor McGonagall. "What on earth has you in such a hurry, Malfoy?" McGonagall asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Spiteri agreed. "No running in the halls, after all!"

Her accent made him want to punch her. "I need the bathroom," he blurted, and bolted.

"Don't hold it in, dear!" she called after him. "It can lead to an infection!"

By the time he caught up with Potter —whom he was certainly not stalking— Draco was out of breath and fiercely on edge. "Affiliating with the dark side these days, Potter?"

Potter raised an eyebrow. "Go away," he said flatly. "I have other things to deal with besides your creepy little crush on me."

Draco reeled back as though he'd been struck.

"Crush?" he parroted dumbly. A moment of silence wherein Potter raised his eyebrow at him ensued.

"I don't have a crush on you, Potter," Draco sneered once he'd regained his senses. "Wishful thinking, I bet, faggot."

Potter snorted and continued down the hallway. "I'm avoiding you and you're following me around. It's weird."

Draco snorted. "Like you can talk, Potter. Having a nice little rendezvous with your death eater buddies earlier?"

Potter's eye roll was so obvious Draco hardly needed to see it. "Role reversal here. Remind me again_, who_ here is the heir to a name that's practically a swear word because of what it became affiliated with?"

"Shut up," Draco hissed indignantly.

"And what the hell kind of death eater comes out in the day time?" Potter stood, arms crossed, eyes narrowed to slits. "That riot belongs to the neutrally affiliated Anarchist Party of Wizarding Britain. Don't go around accusing people of things like that when you're the most guilty of the lot."

Draco paused. Anarchist Party? What on earth was Potter talking about?

He asked just that, not very nicely, and Potter smirked at him. "Time to catch up on current affairs, Malfoy."

Seething, Draco stamped his foot on the stone floor. Maybe Malfoys did do petulant.

"Whoa. I'm really afraid now." Potter arched a black eyebrow. "And here I thought you wanted an audience for when you made a fool of yourself."

Rage swelled in Draco's stomach. Potter was making him _feel_ like a fool, and most of the people who were capable of that were dead now. Draco's hands clenched into fists. Looked like Potter might be joining them shortly.

Potter opened his mouth to say something, decided against it, and started down the corridor in silence.

Draco wasn't about to let him go. He was infuriated and spoiling for a fight now, and by Merlin he was going to get one.

"Running like a coward are we, Potter?" he asked pleasantly. "Thought you grew a pair during the war."

Potter rounded on him, grabbing Draco by the shoulders and pinning him against the wall before he had a chance to react.. "You have no right."

"No right to what?" Draco shot back, sneering. "An opinion? All that fighting obviously made you look like a man, but inside you're just the wimpy little eleven year old who doesn't know the right end of his wand."

Snarling, Potter slammed Draco's shoulder's against the wall again, shoving him down a thin, stone tributary and holding him there at the juncture of two walls. He bared his teeth in a mirthless, furious expression. "What did the war make you, Draco, huh?" He pressed so close that Draco could feel the air squeezing out of his lungs. "You were just as scared as anyone and now you're _all alone_."

Draco wondered how it was that _glorious_, _unsinkable_, _righteous_ Harry Potter could sound so much like Miles Bletchley.

Potter's rasping whisper echoed through the stone walkway.

"What are you now?"

Draco clawed at Potter's back. He was breathless, pulse racing and voice lost. He buried his face in Potter's shoulder, struggling helplessly. He couldn't reach his wand, not with the way Potter had his arms pinned against the biting stone walls.

"I don't know," he gasped, eyes squeezing shut. He wanted Potter to let go of him, to walk away and let him remain there, panting and just _slightly_

aroused.

Potter's hips pressed against his, Potter's chest against his, Potter's forehead against his. Draco squeezed his eyes shut.

"Of course you don't know."

Draco could feel Potter's breath fanning over his neck, blossoming over milk white skin. Draco squirmed. The proximity made him dizzy, made his heart beat faster.

_There's something wrong with you_, Lucius' voice hissed inside his head. _He wants to shred you and here all you can think about is_—

Draco cried out as Harry bit into the side of his neck.

For one long, horrible second, Draco was afraid he was hallucinating the entire thing. That he would wake up in his bed warm and _hard_ at the thought of being pressed up against a wall by Harry _fucking_ Potter. It should have terrified him to be restrained like that, he should have been panicking alone, but it didn't and he wasn't and their hips ground together and he cried out.

"Be quiet," Potter hissed. "We're _barely_ out of sight."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and slid his mouth down to seal it against Potter's. Potter kissed him back enthusiastically, prying their mouths open to slide his tongue into Draco's.

It was not a fight for dominance.

It was a massacre.

Draco clawed at Potter's back, hopelessly aroused by the lack of control he had over his own body. The closeness squeezed the breath from his lungs, made the blood that rushed in his ears pound more fiercely through his skin. He felt Potter's hand slide between them and he threw his head back against the stone. It stung, but he bit his mouth to keep from making any noise.

Now he had exactly what he wanted.

Potter's hand was in his shirt and Potter's nails were in his skin and Potter's tongue was in his mouth and Potter was in his head, invading and infecting every inch of Draco. He gasped again when Potter's teeth were in his skin, when his blood broke free of its columbine confines.

Draco cried out, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. He slumped, still gasping for breath, still intoxicatingly close.

"This," Potter breathed, "means nothing."

Dazed, Draco nodded. "Of course not."

Neither of them moved for a long minute, still sealed together and tucked out of sight down an unused passageway. Draco could hear Potter's heartbeat, frenetic as a hummingbird's.

Draco's heart was still thumping unreasonably fast as Potter untangled their limbs and stepped away, brushing at his clothes. Potter's eyes were clear and unreadable. Draco looked up at him, well aware how pathetic he looked but not quite at a stage where he cared again.

"What was that about wishful thinking?" Potter's voice was ragged, full of leftover lust, a perfect counterpoint to his calm, collected expression.

Draco just swallowed, trying to concentrate on keeping himself upright.

Potter patted Draco's bleeding shoulder patronizingly. "Just mind your own business, from now on, okay? Okay."

He strode off down the corridor, leaving Draco staring blankly.

Just like every other time.

* * *

"You're a fool, a fool, a damned fool," Draco murmured, rocking slightly. The dorm was empty, he hadn't even drawn the hangings properly.

He was wringing his hands, and if he'd been less distracted, he might have snorted at the pathetic sight he made. As it stood, he was too distracted to really care.

Grinding against Harry Potter in a dark hallway hardly counted as _sex_, not by Slytherin standards, anyway, but the fact that it was _Harry Potter_

made it feel nonetheless taboo. He wondered what his father would say about something like this. Nothing good.

Actually, he knew exactly what his father would say.

_You abandoned your _morals_ for this_?

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and his fingernails bit into the skin of his palms. He didn't even notice the sting anymore.

One of the scrawny first years wandered in. He squeaked as soon as his eyes landed on Draco. "Are you okay? Are you sick?"

Apparently, this boy had yet to have the compassion beat out of his brain.

No matter, he'd learn soon enough.

Instead of answering, Draco yanked the hangings closed. That would hopefully make inroads in the disillusionment of the first year, at least.

* * *

The night was clear, cool, calm in a way that had been rare in the last decade. A silhouette broke the sky.

Perched atop the Astronomy tower, the figure's legs dangled, head bowed, hands fluttering above twitching thighs.

Murmured words were given for safekeeping to the star-studded night, carried by light, twisting breezes that rose in circles, buffeting dark hair gently.

Eyes stayed closed, hands curled into loose fists atop still twitching thighs before the dangling legs were drawn up to a heaving chest.

Sobs broke the silence much more effectively than the words the figure gave to the night.

* * *

The half-populated Slytherin table hummed with halting conversation. Pansy tapped her silverware against the rim of her plate impatiently, eyes darting side to side to look at her classmates.

"What's bothering you?" asked the first year Draco had encountered earlier that week.

Pansy slid her eyes over to stare at him. "Same thing that's bothering everyone," she said.

"What's that?"

"Everything."

A smile —half-hearted, half alive, half there— twitched at the edge of Draco's mouth. He slid his hand over to grab hold of Pansy's, ran his thumb over the flat of her palm until her shoulders relaxed. No one else seemed to catch the gesture, but Pansy smiled a brief, appreciative smile. She turned back towards her plate but did not move to consume the food that now rested there.

"You should eat," he said.

"I know," she snapped back, without the malice that accompanied so many of her other retorts. "I'm just not very hungry lately. Don't know why."

He dropped her hand and returned to his own meal.

* * *

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	4. In Which Samuels is Dead

Draco woke up a little later than usual.

He tumbled indignantly out of bed, stumbling through his dressing. He fixed his hair —it took longer than usual, it seemed— and slipped his feet into his shoes. He would be late downstairs anyway, and Pansy would start in on him.

Pansy herself, however, was missing from the table.

Draco sat down in the spot he usually sat in and turned to his tablemates. The only person who would meet his eyes was a a mousy, red-haired fourth year who leered at Draco from across the waffles.

He ate quietly.

Blaise elbowed him a little. "You look you're going to pass out. What's going on?"

Draco shook his head and stuffed another bite of poached egg into his mouth. He swallowed neatly. "Nothing. I'm just exhausted."

That look of understanding passed over Blaise's dark features and he nodded slowly. "Got it, mate. Everyone's exhausted."

It was that all-absorbing exhaustion that leeched all the energy from everything and left the world grey. It refused to die with sleep, and every morning, the students of Hogwarts woke up looking just a little older, just a little closer to going to sleep and never waking up. It clung to their robes and their skin and their hands.

After the war, everyone's handwriting was terrible.

"Where's Pansy?" asked Draco.

A girl with garish orange hair and buckteeth —very distant, very _rich_, very _powerful_ cousin of the Weasleys— looked up from her plate. "She was ralphing in the loo all morning."

Draco wrinkled his nose. He hoped Pansy hadn't starting _drinking_. Very plebeian.

The dark haired girl arrived only a few moments later, hair straightened and arranged properly on her head, eyes lined and clothes neatly pressed, clinging to her thin body.

Draco slid over to make space for her.

The orange-haired girl sneered at Pansy, and Pansy just narrowed her eyes in response before turning her attention back to her plate.

"Did you do the potions assignment?" she asked, making wiggly lines in her syrup with the tines of her fork. "I didn't get mine done."

Draco didn't look up. "Yeah," he said. "You can look at what I have."

His eyes were fixed on the back of Harry Potter's head. Potter hadn't looked over at the Slytherin table even once. The crushing affection Draco craved eluded him ruthlessly and it made his belly twist uncomfortably. He itched inside his skin, and he shifted awkwardly.

Pansy slid her eyes over and raised an eyebrow. "Are you okay?" she asked with cool detachment.

"Nothing," he replied shortly. He tore his eyes away from Potter's form.

Staring only made his heart beat faster.

"You're lying," Pansy informed him. "I don't mind though. Are you ready for Quidditch?"

Draco perked up. "Definitely," he said. "It'll give everyone a _distraction_."

A thin smile slid over Pansy's face and he balanced the fork on the side of her hand. "A distraction," she echoed. "Doesn't that sound nice right now?"

"If it means I don't have to go to potions class, I'll take just about anything." Draco shook his head and finished the rest of his breakfast. "Doesn't look like that's going to happen today though. I'll walk with you?"

Pansy nodded and they left together, starting towards their class to avoid the rush of other students brushing past them.

"We should sit next to each other," Pansy murmured. "Yesterday I was sitting with _Lovegood_ and she just kept talking about...something. And it was so queer to listen to because she sounded like someone entirely different. Like something else was talking with her voice." She shivered and leaned against Draco. "It made her even more trying to tolerate."

Despite Pansy's sentiments, Draco actually liked Luna. Though she often fluctuated between serious and ethereal, she provided enough of a diversion to make him respect her among his classmates.

Also, she would look him in the eye and complete her sentences when they spoke. She had never pushed past him to get somewhere faster. To get away faster. He was grateful for that.

"She's not so bad," he said. "Maybe still a bit loony, but that's what war does to a person."

Pansy laughed a little and pressed against him, letting her head fall to his shoulder and rest in the crook of his neck.

"Aren't you affectionate this morning?" he mumbled, though he grudgingly draped an arm around Pansy's skinny shoulders. Her skin felt flushed and warm, though less with embarrassment than pure heat.

Pansy had always been warm.

They settled into the potion's classroom, towards the back where no one would bother them. Few of the other students had gotten there so early, and so the two of them leaned against the wall and doodled on sheets of parchment, charmed to make their pen lines flutter about the page. Pansy drew little squares interlocking into a complicated pentacle, while Draco settled for a few circles. He wasn't an artist by any stretch of the imagination, and so didn't mind when the girl on his arm laughed a little.

"You've got talent," she teased, poking him in the chest weakly.

One of the Gryffindors looked up from their frantic scribbling on their assignment, and Pansy scowled at them, her lip curling viciously.

The Gryffindor looked down, and Pansy relaxed in his arms.

"You're on edge," Malfoy observed. "One of your repulsive dorm mates said you had been sick."

Pansy shrugged. "I've been better. Haven't you?"

He didn't say anything after that.

Spiteri bustled into the room, swaying side to side as she began writing out instructions for the potion of the day.

"We're going to be working on something a little harder today," she told them, tapping her wand on the desk in front of her. Her voice was far clearer, louder, than it had been even a single day prior. "Everyone get prepared to draft up some healing potions. They're going to be class C potions, so a little more complex than what you might be accustomed to. Just work with the person next to you, we have a lot to do and very little time in which to do it."

Calming draughts? Restricted healing potions? Draco wrinkled his nose.

Anyone who claimed the _war_ was over was a damned fool, though much of the organized fighting had ceased. Riots and outbursts of activity from former death eaters still erupted from time to time —usually not far from muggle areas— but lacking their driving force, the efforts of the once-great Dark were greatly reduced to chaotic attacks on pockets of mixed residential areas.

Instead, the fighting persisted in the form of disillusioned, distracted factions, all competing for control of the wizarding world. Every day, the Daily Prophet printed a new story about vigilantes trying to destroy the weakened ministry or take over a small muggle district. Bombs and stray spells were perhaps more dangerous than the remnants of Voldemort's followers— at least death eaters had a goal, while these rebels without cause sought only to leave as much destruction as possible in their wake.

Pansy balanced herself on an elbow. "Draco." She waved her slender fingers in front of his face. "Darling. Did you want to cut up the Heartwood blossoms, or should I?"

He looked down at the flowers sitting on the table in front of him. "I'll do it," he said. "You have to cut those so you don't touch the flowers. I can do it."

Pansy nodded and returned her attention to the potion. "I'm not as good at this as you are," she said. "You probably should have worked with someone else."

"I don't care." Draco shot a sharp glance over at Harry Potter. He was working with a scrawny, inept Gryffindor boy. The mudblood girl —why she was in that class, and if he was even allowed to call her that any more, he wasn't sure— kept sending him sympathetic glances.

Draco scowled at the cauldron. It bubbled a sick green colour with the ingredients Pansy had dropped in already.

She really wasn't very good at potions.

Theodore had been good at potions. He'd had that unusual spark that let him understand exactly what the potion required, how to repair damage done by _someone else's_ imprecise hands. It had come easily to him, it seemed, and he'd gotten all the way to N.E.W.T. level before the war broke out.

Draco shivered, turning his attention back to the present, shoving his contemplation of Theodore Nott's wasted potential out of his mind.

"Here, you chop," he said, handing Pansy a root to dice and moving over to sprinkle the now-chopped bunch of flowers into the cauldron.

A smile twitched at the edge of Pansy's tight mouth, and she began slicing.

Though potions didn't come so easily to him, Draco knew he was capable of finishing yet another healing potion for yet another battle. 

* * *

Having been granted the position of Quidditch captain by default following Urquhart's inability to reprise his position, Draco surveyed his team, standing around on the center of the pitch. This year's lot were all particularly scruffy, comprised largely of first years since Crabbe was dead and Worthington was gone and no one had heard from Pucey in months. They didn't even bother with try-outs: only seven people had shown up. They didn't even have an alternate.

"So this is the Slytherin team," Draco mumbled under his breath. The only returning members beside himself were Bletchley and Goyle. "It's going to be a good season."

Goyle snickered. "A good season," he echoed. Only Bletchley seemed to catch the sarcasm in his tone.

_You are a fool, Draco, if you think you can lead anything, much less a band of losers to the House cup_, said Lucius Malfoy's cold voice. Draco shivered, wrapping his gloved hand around his broomstick.

"It will be," Malfoy replied. His knuckles turned white around the handle of his broom. "We're meeting Wednesday evening, Friday night, and Sunday late morning. Don't be late. Don't get detention or I'll kick you off the team. _Beat. Gryffindor_. Any questions?"

A mousy haired boy raised his hand tentatively.

Draco scowled. "You. What's your name?"

"Marius Martyrwood," said the mousy boy. "And I want to know how long practice is going to be. Three nights a week is a lot."

For a moment, Draco just stared. "As long as I say it is," he said finally. "You willl be here every practice, or you will be replaced." He cracked his knuckles and shifted awkwardly on his feet.

Like they could replace anyone on the team. Marius probably knew that, given the way he was smirking.

"First game is against Ravenclaw. Next week. We're going to tear them apart." He'd never been much good at raising morale. "There's pretty much no way they can beat us. One of their Beaters is blind in one eye and their Keeper has a broken arm."

Marius snickered.

"That said," Draco clapped his hands together, broom balanced against the side of his body, "we'll meet back here Friday at eight for our night practice."

"It's supposed to rain," one of the other first years complained, hand on his hip. He scowled at Draco through his thin, gold glasses.

Draco stared at him for a minute. "It'll be good for you," he said finally. "Friday. Eight."

He turned on his heel and strode away. 

* * *

"Hi Draco."

Draco looked up from his potions assignment. "Lovegood." He afforded her a haphazard smile, and she sat beside him on one of the wooden library chairs. Her blond hair curled around her face, springing from her head in all directions at once. "Studying for you too?"

She shrugged. "Just took a break. Hermione and I have been stuck here all day."

"So naturally you choose to spend your off time bothering me." Draco shook his head, though his tone lacked any real malice. "How are you?"

Luna perked up. She smiled easily at him and blew strands of golden hair out of her face. "Just fine," she said. "It's been kind of hard adjusting again, but it's not as bad as it could have been." She fixated her wide and probing eyes on him. They traveled over his face, scraping over his skin before their gazes met. "What about you?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer, entertaining for just one minute _telling_ Luna Lovegood that he had nightmares and flashbacks, that the person he had been in love with was dead, that his family had fallen apart and that he was alone.

_As if you'd tell _**_anyone_**_ those things,_ sneered Lucius inside his head. _You're so ashamed_.

And once again, the disembodied voice of Draco's deceased father spoke truth.

"I've been better," he said finally. "But it's nothing to dwell on. Just a little odd being in school again."

"I know." Luna stretched her arms out across the table. Her back arched and she sighed with satisfaction. "The walls are the same and the portraits are the same but the people...we're all different. Even the ones who were here before."

He shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the tiles on the floor. "Yeah. I know what you mean. Half the quidditch team is gone."

"Heard you made captain. Congratulations on that." Luna nodded as she spoke, head keeping beat to music that Draco didn't hear and probably didn't exist anyway. "Did you know that the Gryffindor quidditch team is a player short?" She shook her head as if to clear it of the inaudible rhythm, then rested her forehead on the wood of the table. "For the first time since anyone can remember."

"Them too? We have a lot of first years."

Luna glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "They're mostly returning players. Just Harry and Ron and Ginny Weasly and Demelza Robins and Jimmy Peakes. Then there's this first year who can barely fly straight. I volunteered to help organize tryouts, and the whole thing was like watching someone drown. In the air. Gryffindor has to find someone before their game against Hufflepuff, but the rest of the team is solid enough to give them a fighting chance."

"Better than we can say for your team," Draco snickered. "Samuels is still playing, even if he got an eye poked out?"

"Inglebee, actually. Samuels is dead."

"Oh."

Luna sat up again to focus her eyes on Draco. Even in the dimness of the library, she glowed like a sunflower unwilted, though she'd grown somehow taller and straighter over the course of a single summer. She didn't sag like a sack of flour when she became lost in thought anymore.

"I'll see you at the Ravenclaw game, Draco." She stood and brushed some of the clinging library dust from her clothing. She tucked the white-blonde hair back behind one of her ears. She turned away, taking a few short strides towards the archway across the room. No further, however, and she halted and turned to him.

Their eyes met.

"Draco," she began, leaning back on her heels. "If you ever..." Her words were lost inside her throat, with hesitation. "If you ever need anyone to talk to. About anything. You can talk to me."

Then Luna Lovegood turned again and fled the room, leaving Draco alone with his book and the voices in his head.

* * *

Eight o' clock crept up on the Quidditch pitch, drowning it in darkness. As predicted, there was a light smattering of rain coming down from the night sky, but there was no reason to be concerned by it. They would all fly in worse conditions at some point in their lives: even though no one liked to admit it, Quidditch was a dirty game.

"We're all here," Draco said, balanced on one leg, surveying his team. They were all there, all assembled, though a few of the first years were staring out onto the pitch. "We're going to do some basic defensive maneuvers and, after that, discuss Ravenclaw strategy."

"How're we going to do _that_, Malfoy?" Bletchley sneered. He had his broom slung across his shoulders, his hips jutting out and spine curved. His body language screamed 'I don't care what you have to say,' no translator needed. "We don't have any idea what Ravenclaw looks like now."

The mud beneath Draco's feet squished as he fidgeted side to side. "They're fast," he said finally, raising his voice a little above the wind. "We can look back at—"

"Look back at what?" Bletchley interrupted. Draco's knuckles turned white around the handle of his broom, and all the new players turned their gazes on Miles. "They aren't the same team they always have been. In fact, they're nothing like the team they have been. They're a bunch of useless cripples now. They have to come up with something a little better than 'fly faster than their opponents.' We have no idea what we're up against."

Draco bit back a sharp retort. "What do you suggest with do then, _Bletchley_?"

Bletchley smiled, showing off all his teeth. "We work on our offense a little. Our keeper has two arms, our Chasers have a lick of sense, and both our beaters can _see_ the Bludgers. Samuels is—"

"Inglebee," Draco interrupted. "Samuels is dead."

"Inglebee then." Bletchley's mouth pursed, then folded into a tight line. "It doesn't matter what they do, we can still beat them. If there's anyone to watch out for, it's Gryffindor. Their team is mostly returning players, and I've heard they might pose a minor threat."

Draco opened his mouth to tell Bletchley that Gryffindor was missing a player.

"I've heard that too," he said instead.

They stared at each other, eyes locked, until Draco looked away. His body was twisting itself into knots, making his muscles tighten and his blood squelch sickly inside his veins.

"Let's go then." He turned away from the shelter of the space beneath the stands and started onto the pitch. He glanced behind him to look at the others tripping behind him. They assembled in a line— keeper, beater, beater, chaser, chaser, chaser.

Draco swallowed. Rain dripped down his face —it was pouring harder than it had been earlier— and he shook his head. Even if the Ravenclaw team were composed of solely Inferi, the Slytherin team still stood a fair shot of losing.

Badly.

"Assume your positions, we're doing drills."

The team complied, grumbling mostly. Bletchley didn't move at first though.

"Go," Draco ordered. The water was stinging his eyes, and he could only make out so much space in front of him. Being too close to Bletchley made him feel on edge. He took a step back.

"You know, Draco," Bletchley began, standing akimbo. "You don't make much of a leader."

_No_, Lucius agreed. Draco winced. _You don't make much of a leader at all._

Draco's stomach twisted. "It's not your place to say anything," he said. "I'm the captain. You're _not_. Go run your fucking drills."

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Draco? Oh, of course you do, you kiss _everyone_ with that mouth."

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Draco heard Lucius laugh. The sound made his stomach tighten and bile rise up in his throat.

He could _see_ Bletchley, and in that poor lighting with those streaks of bright water, that was too close. He could _smell_ Bletchley too, the familiar smell of sweat and skin.

"_Go_."

Bletchley halted, and took to the air without replying.

* * *

**Next chapter: Quidditch, Pansy/Draco cuteness of the strictly platonic variety, and mindless smut. Of the not-so-platonic variety.  
Which is to say Harry shows up again~**

**Muchas gracias to our readers and reviewers.  
We love to hear from you.  
**


	5. We Walk a Fine Line

**Like this is ours.  
It's not.**

* * *

Draco pushed off the ground, looping to come and hover a few dozen feet from the ground of the pitch. The Ravenclaw team looked like a bunch of grizzled war veterans.

The realisation hit Draco that that was exactly what they were. Are.

_Getting sentimental there, son?_ Lucius' voice was a sickening mix of faux-concern and scorn. Draco felt ill.

He rose a little higher and went through the Captain's motions absently, hardly even knowing he was doing it.

The Ravenclaw captain shook his hand, but their hands were shaking enough they didn't even need to expend the effort or energy to do it themselves.

Draco looped back to his team. Bletchley grinned at him, but the grin made Draco feel as ill as his father's voice.

_How lovely of you, Draco_, Lucius purred.

Draco swallowed back a retch and turned to the team. "Win," he said simply, and was pleased that his voice remained steady. "Or there'll be consequences."

The match began. Draco sank to a different level of consciousness, where he didn't have to concentrate.

Fifteen minutes later, Slytherin were sixty points ahead. Ravenclaw hadn't touched the Quaffle and Inglebee, the one-eyed-wonder, was barely staying on his broom.

The Ravenclaw keeper wasn't even bothering to defend more than half-heartedly, and the chasers were being harassed by Bludgers from all sides.

Bletchley was playing well, albeitly violently.

Draco was enjoying being in the air again more than anything. He'd only caught sight of the Snitch once, and since then just looped above the pitch, scanning calmly. The Ravenclaw seeker was barely big enough to _steer_ his broom, let alone pose a threat, so Draco wasn't too worried.

Thirty seven minutes in, Slytherin were a hundred and sixty points ahead, Ravenclaw had ten points on the board from a lucky penalty shot where it bounced off the ring.

Draco chased after a hint of gold, nearly got knocked off his broom by a stray Bludger, couldn't find the Snitch again and so returned to safer heights above the level of play.

He heard Hooch's whistle sound loudly and looked around, wondering what he'd missed. The other players were descending, so Draco followed suit.

Bletchley was closest and Draco didn't think he wanted to know what was the reason for the predatory grin that twisted the other boy's mouth in a grotesque parody of a real smile.

_Real smiles, Draco?_ Lucius's laughter was poisonous. _What'll be next, puppies and butterflies and dandelions? You should Avada those things, Bletchley is a true servant of Our Lord._

"Was," Draco mumbled to himself. "Was a servant of Our Lord."

"Ravenclaw has decided to forfeit!"

The spectators slumped. The first years on the Slytherin team —too young to know that a _forfeit_ wasn't really any better than a _loss_— looked thrilled and whispered words of congratulations to each other. Martyrwood looked smug, as if he'd some how contributed to Ravenclaw's complete lack of talent and preparedness.

After the obligatory handshakes, Draco shuffled off the pitch. He tripped a few times, over loose grass, and the stumbling gave him vertigo. Everything seemed to spin around him. The world tilted 15 degrees forward and backward, and he had to lean on his broom for support.

"Oi."

Someone's voice interrupted his thoughts. He opened his eyes and peered at Harry Potter through the thickening mist. "What do you want?" he asked. The world was spinning less. "I don't have time to deal with you."

"I just came over to congratulate you on your team's win," said Potter. "You lot played really well."

"We won by forfeit," Draco replied shortly. "That can barely be counted as a win. Ravenclaw Chasers are useless and their Keeper was playing with one arm literally tied behind his back. We only missed the one goal because Inglebee managed to kind of accidentally get too close to a skittish first year who dropped the goddamned Quaffle." His chest rose and fell with frustration.

Potter shrugged. "It was still a good game. You fly really well."

Even though he'd heard it a hundred times before —and it was _Potter_— Draco felt his face flush red.

_He wants something_, Lucius drawled at the bleak corner of his mind, and Draco's spine snapped straight. _He isn't complimenting you just to watch you blush_.

"What do you want?" Draco asked. "It's raining."

For a moment, Potter looked like he had nothing to say, and Draco debated just storming past him. Instead, he stayed still, waiting for some response from the dark haired wizard. He had, after all, sought out Draco in bad weather.

"I was just thinking," Potter said, taking a few steps closer. It was predatory, the way Bletchley could sometimes be, but it didn't contain the same controlling malice. "About the other night. In the hallway."

Draco's back burned crimson.

"I was thinking," Potter was so very close now, breath fanning over Draco's face in opaque bursts, "that you should meet me in the room of requirement tomorrow night at nine."

The confidence and entitlement on Potter's face made Draco's blood race hot in his ears.

"And if I don't want to?"

Potter reached out and wrapped his arm around Draco's neck, fusing their mouths together in one brief, searing kiss. Their tongues brushed against each other, smooth and desperate and tangling. Draco moaned in the back of his throat a little. When Potter yanked back, he was grinning.

"Then I'll come find you."

* * *

Draco looked up as his mattress sank down slightly. Pansy was sitting cross legged on the end of the bed, her fingers tangling and untangling in her lap.

"Pans?" The nickname rolled off his tongue easily, although he couldn't remember the last time he used it.

She looked up, and Draco could see the barely-there glitter of tears in her dark eyes. He opened his arms, pushed aside his Transfiguration text. She crawled forward until she was nestled between his legs, head resting in the crook of his neck.

Draco's arms came around her and she shuddered briefly. She'd always fit well in his arms. Draco had rather thought, growing up, that they could have been the perfect couple, but it never ended up that way.

He absently stroked her back with the fingers of his left hand, his right hand resting comfortably above her hip. She leaned further into him, her fingers gripping the collar of his shirt. There was a telling dampness in the curve where his neck and shoulder met. The quivering of her back also spoke volumes to Draco.

"Breathe, Pans," he said quietly. She calmed down slowly. He nuzzled her hair gently, thinking.

Draco knew he loved her, there was no doubt of that. He found her attractive. He enjoyed squishing her into the mattress and sliding his hands between her legs and making her cry out.

He wasn't in love with her though.

"What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "I can't talk about it," he mumbled. "I'll tell you later. Just...not now."

Tentatively, Draco kissed the slice of white skin.

"Okay."

* * *

Draco shuffled down the dismal hallways. Late evening meant most people were already studying in their common rooms, leaving the hallways abandoned enough to be dismal. He shifted around in his clothing, trying not to look too suspicious.

Room of requirement.

He wondered what Potter had stated that he required. Could one just walk up to the room and request a place to fuck their arch nemesis?

It was moot. Voldemort was, always had been, Potter's arch nemesis. Draco was his childhood rival. They were entirely different things.

The door in the wall where the room of requirement sat was a simple wooden doorways without adornment. Draco inched up to it, stood before it, and debated ignoring it. It wasn't too late to walk away from what would be undoubtedly _stupid_. It was Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived _Twice_. Having sex with the Boy Who Lived Twice struck him as stupid and careless.

Also, delicious. He slipped into the room and leaned against the door.

Harry Potter sat cross legged on a worn-out pink couch. There were the most _unusual_ light fixtures, ones he recognized from the muggle studies class that had been required of him. They stuck to walls with green and white pinstripe wallpaper. Of course _Potter_ would come up with a scene out of a cheap muggle inn, because _Potter_ was the sort of person who would relegate sex to something seedy.

Potter tilted his head to one side and arched one slender eyebrow. "It's five minutes past."

Draco tilted his eyes up to look at him. "So? I met you here, didn't I?"

"But you're late," Potter growled.

Shivering, Draco pressed himself more firmly against the door. "I'm here." He clawed his nails across the wood. "Do I have to keep pretending we don't know why we're here?"

Potter shook his head, but did not move. "No," he said. "We don't."

"Just so we have this straight," Draco slipped off the coat he'd wrapped around his body to stave off the autumn, "this just means we're sleeping together."

"Not even sleeping together," Potter replied. "You're an experiment."

"Experiment? Taking a break from the straight and narrow to dabble in more..._familiar_ pleasure?"

Potter _snickered_ at him. Draco bristled. "Not that kind of experiment. A distraction."

Oh, a _distraction. _If the saviour of the wizarding world wanted to sleep with practitioners of the dark arts, Draco would be first to offer himself up. Whether or not he hated Harry Potter made no difference— Harry Potter was searing hot and excruciatingly attractive and so _easy_.

Draco crossed the room in tumbling steps to sit on the couch. He kicked off his shoes and peered at Potter through a curtain of blond strands. He opened his mouth to quip something witty, sling a few insults, but instead, Potter leaned over to smash their mouths together. Draco's lip burned and he swore he tasted blood.

Potter's tongue slipped past Draco's lips, ran teasingly over his gums and cheeks and the smooth of his mouth. He pressed his hips against Draco's, threaded his hand into Draco's hair, ran his nails up Draco's shirt.

Draco let the Gryffindor push him backwards onto the sagging couch.

Potter yanked Draco's shirt over his head and discarded the article of clothing on the floor. He slid his mouth down Draco's jaw, biting at the smooth skin that covered the Malfoy boy's lovely bones. His nails left long, red scratches over Draco's ribs. Draco arched beneath him, gasping desperately for air. He spread his legs a little, ground up against Potter's writhing body, and relished the rush from being pinned against a pink couch by someone he _loathed_.

Besides, if Potter had him pinned, it wasn't like Draco could take _responsibility_...

Potter's hands undid the buttons on Draco's black slacks and yanked them down, exposing yet more milk-white skin. Draco felt green eyes trace the puckered, silvery scars that criss-crossed his body, but everyone did that. Potter was no different.

The dark haired boy slid his mouth down again, fitting his lips over one of the thin lines below Draco's collarbone. Draco shifted uncomfortably, threading his hand through Harry's hair and pushing him _down_.

Potter bit down on one of Draco's piquant nipples, clasping it with his teeth and swishing his tongue over the pulsing skin. Draco's back arched again and he cried out, trying to shift away from the other boy's mouth. Potter still had most of his clothing on —he'd taken off his _socks_ and that was all— and the friction was maddening.

Potter sat up and shed his shirt, still straddling Draco's waist. Draco's hands fell to Harry's hips and he traced circles with his thumb on the sharpness of bone. Potter wore frustratingly tight blue jeans, and they held fast to his skinny body despite Draco's insistent tugging.

"How do you get these off?" he demanded in frustration. "And why are you wearing _muggle_ clothes?" Growling in the back of his throat, Draco yanked on the belt loops, pulling Potter forward by the hips until the brunet was close enough to mouth insistantly. Draco attached his lips to the taut skin of Harry's hips.

Potter rolled his eyes —though, Draco noted with satisfaction, he had to bite his mouth to hold back a moan— and reached down to undo his jeans. They didn't slip off, but Draco could tug them off far enough to serve his purposes.

He would pretend, later, that his breath hadn't hitched as he realized Potter _wasn't_ wearing anything under those jeans.

Potter had him pinned against the couch, gasping, twisting. Draco heard the sounds his spine made, all the kinks that stuck from his skin, the bones. Potter shifted back to sit between his legs.

Draco watched in fascination the way Potter's body moved as the brunet bent to kiss Draco's belly. His tongue slid from between his lips, leaving a trail of spit to Draco's cock.

Head thrust back, Draco lifted his hips helplessly. Harry Potter had the _warmest_ mouth and it was stupid and ridiculous that he should be able to get such a response out of Draco. Any Slytherin, really, but _especially Draco_.

Potter plucked something from the pockets of his jeans. He moved with efficiency and calmness, muscle motion that made Draco wonder just how many people Potter had fucked in this particular room.

Did he keep the wallpaper that same green and white pinstripe?

Potter slid a finger into Draco and crooked it carefully. Draco gasped again and moved to sit up, away from the intrusion. Even if it made him pant, the instinct was there and—

Without looking up, Potter shoved Draco back down by the shoulders.

Pleasure flooded Draco's skin, flushing it bright red. He squirmed as Potter slid in another finger, slick and thin and twisting in the tight space. Draco bit his mouth to keep from making any noise.

Potter detached his mouth from Draco's erection and grinned up at him through his shaggy dark hair. "You don't have to be quiet," he said.

Draco knew he didn't have to be quiet. That was just silly. Instead of answering, he let his mouth fall open and his chest rise and fall more violently. Potter and his stupid fingers. Nevermind that he'd been the one to agree to come —the one who opened that stupid wooden door— it was all Potter's fault.

After all, he had Draco pinned to the couch.

Potter withdrew his twisting, crooking fingers and crawled forward to throw one of Draco's legs over his shoulder. His hands lingered on Draco's skin, alternating between feathery touches and nails into skin that drew blood and made Draco crush shrieks in the back of his throat. He pressed closer, his erection against Draco's entrance, and though he hesitated a moment, he did not stop.

It hurt.

It also occurred to Draco that if he were to ask Potter to stop —as if he'd ever want it to stop, because _nothing_ aroused him like this— Potter probably would, simply on principle. That made letting the boy wonder pin him down and fuck him okay.

Only Draco didn't want him to stop.

His spine arched and he strangled another scream. Potter thrust into him again and sunk his nails into Draco's flesh. His hand slid up to rub lazily at Draco's erection, fingers pinching the head and smearing precum down its length.

He increased his pace, enough to make Draco yowl loudly in obvious pleasure. It sent shivers through Potter's body, Draco could feel them. He pulled Potter close by the shoulders with one leg, pushing back against him, squirming to press Potter deeper.

Potter leaned forward, folding Draco over himself to press his mouth against the Slytherin's collarbone.

Draco pivoted to bury his face in the side of the couch. "_Potter_," he mumbled into the coral-coloured cushion. He struggled against the hold Potter had on him even as he sealed their hips together again. His body buzzed with pleasure, volcanic and primal in origin, that ripped through his limbs and burst inside his belly.

The tendrils of orgasm pulled taut and he came, gasping for air. He was aware that he cried out and bit his lip until it bled freshly. That was all he was aware of, besides Potter's thrusts slowing before his hips jerked and he came, sharply, into Draco's body.

They lay tangled up in each other, panting but otherwise unspeaking.

Potter was the first to move. He sat up and reached for the wand he'd set beside where his jeans now lay. He cast his cleaning spell wordlessly and slid his feet to rest on the floor.

Draco found the room felt remarkably cold once their bodies had separated.

"So." He ran his fingers through his bright, blond hair.

Halfway into his clothes again, Potter glanced over at him. "So what?"

"Was the experiment a success?"

For a moment, Potter stared at him without replying. "I believe so," he said. "Though further trials might be required."

Draco shivered a little and redressed with crisp, efficient movements. "We could meet again sometime."

An arched eyebrow from Potter. "Oh?"

Awkwardly, Draco tried to straighten his hair. As if anyone would be watching him walk back to the dungeons. If he was caught, it wouldn't matter what he looked like: out of bed after hours was out of bed after hours, whether he'd been recently fucked or not.

"Yeah." He stood, wavering for a moment before steadying himself on a tacky lampshade of the room's creation. "Slytherin team has practice until about ten Wednesdays, so possibly after that maybe?"

_So possibly after that maybe?_ Lucius' voice was there again, at the back of his mind. _Not only are you having relations with your arch rival in my absence, you've become a **woman** as well_.

"After practice, Wednesday," Harry echoed. "Okay."

Draco left without looking back.

* * *

**Hey man, we said we'd give you smut. Not that it would be good.  
Draco is our official proof that you can get fucked and still be a demanding, assertive person.  
::snerk::**

**(Also, the Pansy/Draco is not a **thing**. Just a thing.)**

**So leave us reviews and stuff because we really do want to know what you think and how we can make it better. We'll listen, since we're just playing it by ear.  
**


	6. Owls, Ravenclaws, and Other Oddities

**Disclaimed, bitch.**

* * *

Draco was in the Owlery. Not for any particular reason, it wasn't like he had anyone to send owls to anymore. Except maybe his mother, but there wasn't much need for that. He wasn't sure she would even be able to focus long enough to read a letter anymore.

He liked the view from the windows. Besides, it was useful to kill time before Hogsmeade. He was quite sure you couldn't leave before the teachers were there and it was scarcely nine am, so he highly doubted they were waiting in the Entrance Hall to tick names off a list yet.

He'd come here with Theodore a lot. The thought made his knees wobble a little, and he sank down against the wall, sliding to sit on the floor.

They'd sat almost in this exact same spot, so much so that the owls didn't bother dropping there. Even now. It didn't escape Draco's notice and made his chest tighten uncomfortably.

_What, you're going to cry over the fact that owls don't shit where you used to sit with your little lover?_ Lucius sneered. _Do you think that means it was true love and you were meant to be? I should Crucio this nonsense out of your head. Along with everything else._

Draco shivered and closed his eyes, curling in on himself. He fancied he could feel Theodore's warmth next to him. The thought made his eyes sting.

_So you _are_ crying over owl shit._

He was.

"Malfoy!"

Draco winced. _Fuck_, what was _Bletchley_ doing in the Owlery, looking for him?

"Blaise said you were in here." Bletchley crossed the floor and stood in front of him. He was wearing his usual heavy boots, shiny and slick and black and Draco could see his reflection in them. God, he looked like shit.

"So? I'm in here." Draco crossed his arms. "Don't bother me."

"But _Draco_—"

Draco's head snapped up. "Don't call me that, we are _not_ on a first name basis, no matter how many time's I've seen you naked, got it?" The corner of his lip curled.

Blechley didn't seem at all threatened. In fact, he laughed low in the back of his throat. "You're so cruel to me, Malfoy. Maybe we should go back to the dungeons and settle this properly."

Draco climbed to his feet and stood, back pressed against the wall. "Or you could leave me alone, and we could stop this before I hex your fucking face off."

Without warning, Bletchley's hands flew out and he grabbed Draco's wrists, pressing them into the wall. "You are _not_ going to do anything of the sort," he purred. "You're going to tell your friends that you don't feel well and we're staying _in_ this weekend."

Draco felt sick at the contact, made sicker by the familiarity.

"We're not dating any more," he said as firmly as he could. "We broke up. I don't want to have anything to do with you."

"It was one little spell..."

Draco's eyes widened and he wriggled one of his hands away. "One little spell? You cast Imperio on me. You _cast Imperio on me_." His breath came in sharp gasps and he shoved Bletchley backwards. "Get away."

He slid from between Bletchley and the wall and started down the stairs. He could hear Bletchley move after him, and the other boy fell in stride a moment later. Draco ignored him, kept his eyes glued to the floors as they descended.

"Draco!"

Draco's head snapped up and he found himself face-to-face with Luna. "Hi," he said. Bletchley halted as well, and Draco felt him cast an appraising glance over.

Luna smiled dazedly at him. "We were wondering if you wanted to come to Hogsmeade with us."

Draco blinked, sliding his eyes over to stare at a livid Bletchley. "Who is this 'we'?"

"Me," Luna said. "And Hermione, Harry, Ron and Neville."

"And you want _me_ to come with you?" Draco arched an eyebrow at the blonde girl. "None of those people like me."

He wondered if Potter would even talk to him.

Bletchley snorted in obvious annoyance. His eyes flicked over Luna appraisingly, and he made no effort to hide that he did not like what he saw. "Why would he want anything to do with you lot?"

"And he had said that none of his friends were going," said Luna. "I thought I would offer."

Draco looked back at Bletchley. He was reddening in the face, furious at Luna's lack of respect or fear or kowtowing, and his hands were clenched into fists.

It wasn't even a choice, really.

"I'm in. Let's go."

Bletchley sputtered. "Shagging the crazy birds now, Malfoy?" His mouth slid into a sneer. "Real classy of you. Pansy will be so—"

"You have an infestation of mutated nargles," Luna said abruptly. She took Draco by the sleeve and led him swiftly down the stairs. Her shoes smacked against the stone stairs, confident, sure steps. Draco was sure his strides lacked that confidence, assuming his body was as disheveled and uncertain as his head.

"Thanks," Draco said when they were off the shifting staircase and back on the ground. The word sounded foreign on his tongue, though the rush of gratitude was not. He opened his mouth, desperate to explain Bletchley away as a jealous, rival, but said instead, "How did you know where I was?"

"I don't quite remember," Luna said thoughtfully. "Someone told me, so I went up to invite you. I'm sorry if I interrupted something with your friend."

Draco flinched and shook his head. "No," he said. "You didn't."

Luna perked up and started down towards the entrance hall. "We can't leave until quarter to 10, so you can meet us there if you don't want to chat."

Shuffling awkwardly after her, Draco kept his head down. He didn't want to _chat_ with anyone, but he didn't want to spend the next 20 minutes in the Slytherin common room, avoiding Bletchley. Pansy hadn't been there that morning, and Blaise had said something about her feeling ill.

_Afraid of **Bletchley**?_ Lucius inquired. _You're rather pathetic._

"No, I can play nice."

Luna drug him over to her little band of friends. "I found Draco!" she chirped.

"Why did you go find him?" Weasley asked slowly, as if talking to a small child. "Why would you want to invite _Draco Malfoy_ along with us anywhere?"

Granger scowled and elbowed him in the ribs. "You're welcome along," she said diplomatically.

They stood around in a semi-circle, mumbling amongst themselves. Draco hung back against one of the walls made from fat, squat stones. He eyed each of them warily, just in case they weren't entirely as they seemed. Like they'd step out of their skin and turn into something entirely different.

_What about these mudbloods and blood traitors entices you so_? Lucius asked, in that conversational tone that he adopted when Draco was still and abstained from enticing his late great father's disgust.

Draco shook his head to clear it. Mudbloods and blood traitors had won a war.

Luna motioned for him to follow them as they wandered through the entrance hall doors and down the path to Hogsmeade. It hadn't snowed yet, but the path was beginning to grow trampled and sloshy with the hundreds of feet that moved over it that morning. It must have rained. As usual, a seething mass of black cloaks and crooked smiles had congregated in the cobbled streets.

Draco squashed the familiar twinge in his chest: equal parts nostalgia and fear.

They handed out pieces of parchment with words scrawled over them. "Take one," they crooned. Even the youngest ones —not much older than himself— had those spacy, glassy eyes and scars on their faces and teeth so crooked.

He followed the others a little bit faster.

Potter had stopped to talk to one of them. They didn't stand hunched as if exchanging secretive information, but Potter didn't look at all apprehensive.

_The Anarchist Party of Wizarding Britain_.

No wonder people looked at the groups with disdain: who wouldn't be wary of new political movements in wake of Voldemort's demise?

"This way," Luna bubbled, motioning Draco forward.

As Draco passed him, Potter slid his eyes up to meet Draco's gaze.

It was brief. 

* * *

Draco and Potter lay curled up on the coral couch, inches away from each other. Draco could feel Potter's breath on his shoulder, rhythmic and rough. He imagined, just briefly, that Potter reached out to slide his fingers down Draco's back, draw circles on his skin and over his spine.

He told himself he couldn't compare Potter to Theodore. There was no comparison between them.

"Sunday afternoon," Potter said. "After your quidditch practice. I'll meet you here?" Potter's voice made Draco shiver: it was low and scraping and made his belly quiver.

Draco tilted his head to look over his shoulder. "That's fine." He couldn't quite meet Potter's gaze, so he stared at the slivers of skin peeking through the dark hair. "I'll see you then."

He climbed to his feet, redressing awkwardly. Potter didn't move, just stared up at him impassively.

"I'll see you later then."

Shuffling back through the dungeons, Draco heard arguing in the hallways. He wouldn't have stopped— it was so common, what with people on edge and enraged— but he recognized Pansy's voice, shrill and quivering and that was enough to make him halt in his tracks.

"It's _nothing_," Pansy was saying. Hissing. Her voice sounded like snakes, winding their way through the air. "I'm not hiding anything."

"If you want to make this work—" someone was saying.

"There's nothing to work out, honestly." Draco heard Pansy say loudly, stomping her foot on the slate floors. "Don't talk to me. There's nothing wrong with me, and if you can't _leave well enough alone_, then don't bother talking to me again."

A frustrated cry from her companion. "Pansy! You've been sick and you look exhausted and—"

"It's nothing," bit Pansy. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

The boy turned on his heel and stormed down the hallway, mumbling to himself.

Pansy started in the other direction. Draco shuffled to catch up with her.

"Who was that?" he asked conversationally.

"No one," Pansy said sharply. "Some Ravenclaw mudblood. He's been following me around a bit."

Draco nodded. "You have that effect on people."

Pansy flicked her hair behind her ear and straightened her white cotton blouse, her green tie. "I know." She shot him a half smile over her shoulder. "Why, jealous?"

She made him laugh easily. "I wouldn't go that far."

They slipped into the common room together.

* * *

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	7. Dirty, AboveAverage Sized Secret

**Ist nicht mein.**

* * *

Draco slid down the halls after Sunday morning Quiddich practice. His body was flushed warm and he itched inside his haphazard clothes. They'd be coming off soon anyway, so he didn't think it mattered what he looked like. Potter never seemed to care.

It wasn't as if Draco cared what Potter looked like. Of course not.

He slipped into the room of requirement and toed off his shoes. He noticed that the floor had changed, that the light was less dingy. "Potter," he greeted, without looking up at the other boy.

Springs creaked and he heard Potter climb to his feet. Draco arched an eyebrow. They had a bed now?

Potter stopped inches away from Draco. "You're flushed," he said in a teasing lilt. "Practicing hard so we can kick your ass next week?"

It wasn't often that they exchanged words. Usually just pleasantries without engagement or meaning. They conversed in the language of touch, a rushed conversation of hands and tongues and hips pressed seamlessly together.

"You wish, Potter." Draco dropped his bag on the floor. He didn't move to undress, not until Potter did, because there was something that made his toes curl at the thought of breaking the tension between them.

Potter leaned forward and pressed his mouth up against Draco's. The kiss demanded the Slytherin's attention but nothing else, coaxed his hands to rest on the small of Potter's back, and made his belly buzz with pleasure. Potter tucked strands of hair behind Draco's ears to keep them from tickling his cheeks.

They broke apart when they ran out of air.

Potter grabbed Draco by the hand —the wrist, really— and tugged him over to the flat, muggle bed. It had creaky springs and a floral print duvet and even though Draco had never been inside a muggle motel room, it felt seedy and dingy and dirty.

Not as dirty as the pink couch had been.

Draco let Potter push him back onto the crisp, white pillows. Potter's mouth was on his mouth, then on his jaw, then on his neck, biting into the thin skin until it broke. Draco's back arched as his mouth fell open; his hips ground up as Potter made his way to Draco's collarbone and bit it with his sharp, straight teeth.

Eyes squeezing shut, Draco slid his hands into Potter's unruly hair.

Potter straddled his hips and began to methodically remove Draco's clothing. He was easily distracted by different parts of Draco's body, mouthing the blond teenager at random intervals. Draco cried out, arching off the bed and against Potter, grinding hopelessly, desperately seeking more contact. His fingernails scraped against the quilt, tangling up in the sheets they disheveled.

"Malfoy," Potter breathed as his mouth ghosted over Draco's ear. "You're _beautiful_."

Even if he'd heard it before, hearing Potter say that made Draco's skin flush dark and his groin grow hotter. He slid his hands into Potter's back pockets, using the leverage to fuse their hips together. The friction of the denim made his breath hitch.

Potter laughed in the back of his throat. His fingernails dug into Draco's thighs as he spread the blond boy's legs. He slid down, tongue tracing the dips and curves of Draco's body. His mouth —warm, the way all of Potter was warm— pressed gently against the juncture of Draco's hips. He nuzzled Draco's erection, tongue pressing from between his pert lips to lick the hot flesh.

Draco gasped, arching off the bed again. One hand strayed into Potter's hair, and he lifted his hips, demanding. "Don't be a fucking tease, Potter. It's unbecoming." He pushed Potter's head down.

Potter pushed Draco into his mouth, lips circling the erection tightly. His tongue brushed along the underside gently and Draco bit his lip until it stung.

Toes curling, Draco spread his legs a little wider. His spine tingled. His tongue ran over his swollen, bleeding mouth.

Potter pressed slick fingers, one at a time, into Draco's quivering body. Draco cried out. His breath came in sharp pants.

"_Potter_!"

Potter pulled back his mouth, lips forming into a wry grin. "Draco Malfoy? Shouting at me to hurry up and fuck him? I never thought I'd live to see it."

Hearing his first name come out of Potter's mouth made Draco's body flood with pleasure. He felt Potter's fingers twist and crook inside of him, and he panted shamelessly as he pressed back against them. Had he been capable of full sentences, he might have replied snappishly, but instead he just moaned aloud, breath hitching as Potter pressed in another finger.

Draco's legs fell apart. His hand disentangled itself from Potter's hair and moved to brush over his erection. Potter slapped his hand away. "No," he growled, and Draco felt his heart flutter again.

The brunet kissed Draco's belly gently and pulled his fingers out. He settled between Draco's thighs, folding the blond boy in half so sharply that Draco cried out in ecstatic pain. Smile twitching at his lip, Potter guided his cock into Draco, pushed forward until their ribs brushed together. The contact made Draco's toes curl and he bit down on his mouth again. The sting of the cut made him squirm.

Potter thrust into him again. He curled Draco's body painfully, pressing their mouths together until Draco felt dizzy from lack of air. Draco's chest rose and fall erratically.

"_Potter_!"

It wasn't just a demand that time: it was need. Draco's entire body hitched as those _stupid_ fingers pinched his pert nipples, his eyes fluttered shut as Potter bit down on the skin he could reach.

White-hot pleasure danced through Draco's skin and bones, lighting the backs of his eyelids bright. He slammed his head back against the pillows until he saw flashing red stars. His spine cracked in three places.

He screamed shamelessly when he came, followed by a low, throaty moan when he felt Potter spill inside of him. He wrapped both arms around Potter's neck and pulled their bodies close together, held Potter still because _like fuck_ he was going there. God he was warm.

They fell into panicky, exhausted breathing, lying crosswise on the bed. Their limbs tangled together, slick with sweat and cum.

_Get up_, hissed Lucius' voice. _Why are you still here? You're **cuddling** with the person who destroyed your family._

Potter pressed his mouth carefully against Draco's neck. "You're shaking," he said. "Did I hurt you?"

Draco sat up and shook his head. "No," he murmured. "I'm not hurt. I'm fine."

_You're a liar._

And he was.

"Let's meet up again," Draco said absently. After he had cast a quick cleaning spell, he picked up his clothing and began to redress. "What're you doing Tuesday?"

"Quidditch practice," Potter replied.

Draco winced and bit his lip. It tasted metallic. "Oh. No problem then."

Potter sat up. He got his own clothes on without speaking: sliding on jeans and buttoning up his shirt.

"After that though," he ran his hands through his hair and didn't look up, "I'm free."

"I'll see you then?"

"Of course."

Potter did not look back as he left.

* * *

Draco heard his spine crack as he sat down and stretched. The sound made him wince, but the relief was sweet. Spiteri wasn't in the classroom yet, so he was blessedly free of her accent. Just the thought made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Potter wandered in after a few minutes. His eyes scanned the room, looking for someone to sit beside. Spiteri would undoubtedly have them working on something complicated.

Draco winced at the thought that he wanted Potter to be his partner just _because_. The wince didn't stop him straightening in his seat, half of him hoping to be noticed. The other half was joining Lucius in his sneering.

_You pathetic creature. What kind of Malfoy needs a Potter to help them in Potions?_

As it turned out, a Malfoy whose nerves were shot, whose concentration was lost, whose hands shook somtimes even if he didn't want them to.

He breathed a sigh of relief when Potter traipsed over to him and sat down.

He didn't quite want to acknowledge the fact that he wanted to be close to Potter again. No, he didn't want to acknowledge that at all, and as Spiteri entered the classroom, chirping something in that accent, Draco's moan as he let his head fall down onto the table was resigned.

Potter's chuckle sent shivers down his spine. Draco had never wanted to spontaneously Disapparate more.  
Not even under the Cruciatus.

Spiteri was telling them about the potion they would be making --it had something to do with glamour-- and Potter was sitting beside him, laughing to himself and to the girl in the desk beside them.

Draco inched away.

Lucius laughed in his head. _You should have been born a girl, Draco, getting jealous and jumpy like this._

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and breathed deeply. He couldn't afford to lose it in Potions class. Not with Spiteri, not with the Gryffindors and especially not with Potter.

"Are you okay?" Potter asked, with a certain air of detachment that made Draco wonder if he cared at all. "You look like hell."

Draco didn't look over. "I'm fine, Potter. Let's just get this potion done."

Potter snorted and set about chopping the appropriate materials. "You're useless to me if you look like you're going to hurl," he said.

Draco cringed and pulled the frankincense towards himself, carefully crushing it.

Potter rolled his eyes. "Malfoy, calm the fuck down. You're jittery as hell."

Draco scowled at him. "I'm always jiterry, Potter. It's what happens to people. Just stop talking to me."

Potter sighed. "Fine. Be careful with that myrrh."

Draco wrinkled his eyebrows and looked down. This was myrrh? "I am," he replied sharply. He paused to still his hands before resuming the preparation.

_Don't you remember when you were the star pupil, Draco?_ Lucius asked. _Don't you remember when you were the best at potions and Potter could barely keep up with his Mudblood friend? For shame._

He looked carefully and realised Potter meant the myrrh that was the next ingredient to go in. He shook his head in an effort to clear the fog that was making it difficult to think.

The prissy Gryffindor girl in front of them leaned back in her chair and balanced against their table. "Do you think you can do that a little bit more awkwardly? I don't think the chunks are uneven enough."

Draco ignored her and focused on his cutting.

"Your potions should be a lovely deep blue at this stage," Spiteri sang. Draco didn't look up from the myrrh he was concentrating on, but he could imagine the way the batty woman would be prancing around the classroom.

Potter shrank a little beside him and Draco snickered inwardly.

Spiteri zeroed in like a hawk.

"Mister Potter!" she crowed cheerfully. "Let's have a look at your potion."

A moment later. "Oh, but it's _perfect_!" she cried.

Draco cringed.

"Um..." Harry mumbled. "Malfoy really put in a good effort. You should really be complimenting him."

Spiteri's eyebrows nearly hit her ratty green hairline. "Well. Good work there, Malfoy. Do keep it up."

She pranced off.

Potter scooped up the myrrh and dumped it into the cauldron. He didn't look over.

Draco straightened a little. Lucius sneered. _Nothing to be proud of there, or are you turning into a Hufflepuff?_

Finally, Potter glanced over. "Are you chopping, or just staring off into space?" He slid closer to Draco. "Because it looks like you're just staring off into space."

Draco shivered as Potter's elbow brushed his side. "Chopping," he said quickly. A little too quickly.

Potter smirked.

For one horrible moment, Draco was afraid Potter would say something incriminating.

"You coming to Hogsmeade with us next weekend?" he said instead.

Draco was rendered speechless for a long moment.

"Um." Seemed to be the only sound that'd leave his mouth. It was followed by a "Well. Okay."

"Luna asked me to ask you," Potter offered by way of explanation. His hands moved faster, straighter and more efficient than Draco's could, and he could stir with one hand and take notes in his potions book with the other. Draco's gut tightened. "She likes you. So she'll be glad you're coming."

Draco slouched in his seat and said nothing more for the rest of the period.

* * *

Draco's posture would have signalled to anyone that cared to look that he wasn't quite in the mood for chitchat. Most Slytherins picked up on that right off and left him well enough alone, but that damn Martyrwood would not leave him be, despite the pointed concentration on his Ancient Runes homework that Draco was displaying.

The overexcitable first year perched in the chair kittycorner from Draco, babbling about their 'win' over Ravenclaw. Draco was quite sure the boy's head was liable to explode with excitement at any moment. Draco personally hated the fact Ravenclaw had forfeited. It took any honour Slytherin could have gained from the game away.

Try telling Marius that, though.

"Is there something you needed?" Draco asked finally.

Marius smiled, and Draco wondered if he imagined the predatory flash. When he blinked, it was gone, so he pushed the thought away.

Pansy slipped into the Slytherin common room. No one looked up but Draco, and thankful for the distraction, he darted over to her. "Pansy," he greeted quickly. God, she looked thin. "Are you okay?"

She met his eyes and he was startled to see red-rimmed eyes contrasting violently with ivory pale skin. "Draco," she murmured. Her voice was unsteady and Draco's breath caught. "Can you get Blaise and meet me in your dorm?"

Draco nodded quickly and scanned the room for Blaise. He didn't see him at first. "I'll find him," he said.

Pansy swallowed thickly. "Actually, I'll tell you now, we'll find him later," she said. She turned and started towards the boy's dormitory.

Draco followed, his stomach sinking and chest tightening. "_Pleaseletherbeokay_," he breathed out in a rush.

_Who's listening?_ Lucius inquired coldly. _Who're you talking to?_

Draco squeezed his hands into fists and struggled to ignore his father's voice.

Pansy was waiting in their dorm. Draco struggled to keep moving— Pansy was dwarfed by Draco's bed. She looked like a child: skinny and shrinking and pale. Small. Draco climbed onto his bed and sat cross-legged on it, facing her so he could look into her eyes.

Pansy wrung her hands in her lap. Draco reached forward and took them between his own to stop their repetitive movements.

"Pansy," Draco said, in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. He wasn't much good at comforting people, not by a long shot. All he could think was _Pansy shouldn't look like that Pansy shouldn't look like that what's wrong with Pansy? _"Tell us what's wrong."

Pansy looked up and her eyes were so clouded that it made Draco's heart skip a beat. A whimpering sound escaped her throat.

Tentatively, Draco smoothed down her dark hair, tucking strands of it behind her ear. Draco felt alone in the terror that swallowed him because _Pansy shouldn't look like that_.

Another whimpering sound and Draco thought that sharp stab might be his heart breaking. "I've been fucking Anthony Goldstein. For a while now," she said.

"The prefect?" Draco narrowed his eyes. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, no," Pansy's voice was still shaky and there was horror in her eyes.

Draco's blood boiled over.

"That's not it," Pansy snapped. Her chest heaved. "That's not it. Swear it. He didn't hurt me."

Draco's eyes narrowed further. She wasn't lying, he knew her well enough to figure that out. Then... "Pansy. Oh god."

Pansy, pureblood Pansy with all her hate and ferocity and perfect track record, was going to have some mudblood baby.

"It was foolish," she said. "I know it is. And now Blaise will be so angry and I'm going to be in so much trouble. I was supposed to get married to someone with power. Good blood. Secure our standing again."

It wasn't like this was the first time this had happened. Girls got pregnant all the time, and some of them stayed pregnant and some of them didn't and some of them just disappeared and came back thin and empty and no one ever spoke of it again. "It'll be okay," he said, as if he believed it. "Blaise will be fine. And you can get married still."

"I'm damaged goods."

The words hit him like streaks of bright lightning. He stared into her face and she looked fragile like a broken-winged sparrow, crushed beneath expectations. "I'll find Blaise," he whispered.

The gratitude in Pansy's eyes worried Draco even more than her lack of colour and red eyes. He watched her cross the room and slip into the hallway leading to the boys dorms and then looked around again, from right to left. Right to left made everything easier to process than left to right.

He found Blaise in a corner, parchment spread all over a table before him.

"Hi," Blaise said, looking up at Draco. "What do you need?"

Draco's eyes flicked back and forth nervously. "Pansy wants to talk to you. She said to go get you. It's...important."

Blaise straightened up, hands darting out to gather his parchment. Draco breathed a little easier at the spark of awareness in the other Slytherin's eyes.

"Where?"

"Our dorm." Draco slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels.

Blaise shoved his parchment into a bag. He stood up, and made towards the dorm.

Pansy had situated herself on the edge of the bed, legs crossed and arms crossed. Over her belly that was still flat or she had charmed it flat. "Blaise," she said, eyes down. She wiggled her fingers at him.

Draco sat down next to her and watched their interaction for a moment, trying to tune out the words.

_I've been fucking Anthony Goldstein_.

"Did he hurt you? We can hurt him for you, Pansy," Blaise offered quickly. "There's nothing a couple of quick curses can't fix." The thought almost made him _purr_ with pleasure.

She shook her head. "That wasn't it." Her eyes flicked over to Draco, pleading and wordless and _please_.

Pansy shouldn't look like that.

So Draco opened his mouth and told the secret she wanted him to tell.

His gaze flicked between Draco and Pansy for a moment before realization lit over Blaise's face. "A fucking _mudblood_ knocked you up, Pansy?"

Pansy drew in a deep, ragged breath. "Yes, Blaise."

Blaise went rigid. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Obviously not," Pansy sneered. Draco felt himself relax a little. At least she was capable of that. "You're just as loose as I am, and you know it."

Blaise's lip curled. "At least I'm careful."

Pansy bristled, and Draco's breath came even easier. Despite the seriousness, this was more of the old Pansy. "It was an accident," she spat.

"Of course it was an accident. Bloody half-blood Goldstein is not someone you plan to have children with. Or marry. What are you even going to do now, Pansy? Your parents will probably disown you or something."

What colour Pansy had regained in her brief fit of anger drained from her face. "I know, Blaise. You don't think I _know_ that?"

Her hands were shaking slightly in Draco's. He squeezed them comfortingly. She laced her fingers with his and squeezed back.

"Shut up Blaise," Draco said. He studied the span of white skin uninterrupted. Her body bore no ink. "Everybody fucks up sometimes. Even you."

Blaise snarled, low in his throat. "Goldstein, Draco. _Goldstein._" His dark eyes flashed with fury, and he strode from the dorm without a backwards glance.

A quiet sob left Pansy, but that was all.

* * *

**Whoa, Pansy = pregnant? Who was expecting that?! (Besides us. And the people who guessed it.**)  
**We promise Pansy's indiscretion has larger bearing on the plot. It's more than just a lame, cliche thread. Fersrs.  
Blaise, Pansy, and Draco are officially the sluttiest kids in school ._.**

**Thank you to all of our fantastic reviewers!**


	8. Interlude I

**Ideological property of J. K. Rowling.**

* * *

Malfoy squirmed beneath him, breathless and red-faced. He was easy to make cry out, what with just a few perfectly placed syllables. _You're beautiful_. _Your eyes your eyes your eyes. You have exquisite skin_.

But as beautiful as Malfoy was, bright as his eyes were, or as unblemished his skin —besides his forearm, of course— it wasn't really his place to say those things. He said them anyway, because that is what Malfoy so badly wanted to hear, but he told himself that he didn't, couldn't mean any of them. Not ever.

Harry lay still beside the blond haired boy, without touching him any further. Vertigo kept him still, dizziness brought on by lust. The room was chilled with the very beginnings of winter, and he watched as goosebumps rose on Malfoy's skin. The blond haired boy shivered and slipped below the tangled cotton sheets. His skin stood out milk-white against the hunter green.

Harry's eyes traced the silver scars that crossed Malfoy's spine.

"What are you staring at?"

"You," Harry replied. He reached out to trace one of the slices of damaged skin. "You're all I can look at."

When their skin connected, he felt Malfoy's breath hitch. "Stop it," the other teenager hissed. "Whatever you're angling for, I want no part of it." He shifted away from Harry, drawing up the sheets. Harry half expected him to get up and leave, but he didn't. He only lay at the edge of the bed, teetering on the brink of falling off, breath coming in short pants.

"I don't want anything," said Harry. He shut his eyes and heaved a sigh. Maybe that wasn't true.

"Obviously you do, Potter, or you'd be shagging someone else. Do you want someone who won't hero worship you? Who won't look at you like you're their personal saviour?" Malfoy rolled onto his side, and Harry balked at the closeness and ferocity of the blond boy. "When people scream 'Christ,' it's not indicative of their opinion of you. It's just something you shout when you're getting it up the arse."

Maybe there was truth in the words spit from Malfoy's mouth. Harry shifted uncomfortably.

"I don't want anything from you," he said shortly. "I want you because you're easy in more ways than one."

For a moment, he was sure Malfoy was going to hit him.

Instead, the blond boy rolled over and set his feet on the ground. He redressed silently, adjusted the collar of his shirt to hide the marks Harry had left. His hands, slender and feminine, raked through his platinum hair. It was longer and messier and dirtier than Harry had ever seen it.

"I'll see you around, Potter," Malfoy murmured. He tied his tie haphazardly and slouched out of the room.

* * *

  
The people in black cloaks were always welcoming to him.

They'd been wary at first, of course. A few of them had stared at him sideways the first time he'd wandered over.

"We're not death eaters," said a woman that reminded him of Tonks. Thirty at most, she had scowled at him with one blue eye and one milky white one and held out a sheet of parchment titled 'The Anarchist Party of Wizarding Britain' in sharp, straight handwriting. He had stared at it, then up at her.

_We oppose notions of pureblood supremacy and the doctrine of Lord Voldemort. We oppose the Ministry of Magic as the sole governing party on matters regarding magic and magical usage. We oppose division in the wizarding world and its intrinsic fear of muggle influence_.

Harry had stared at the parchment for a few more seconds, and then it had promptly burst into flame.

He'd come back the next day and the same woman with one good eye had given him a much less hostile greeting.

"I oppose the notions of pureblood supremacy," he said. "And the doctrine of Lord Voldemort."

She arched an eyebrow. "You're Harry Potter," she stated, without incredulity. Rather, exasperation. "Of course you oppose those things. You wouldn't have fought a war over them if you didn't." She didn't bother to hide the disdain in her voice, but he hadn't expected her to do so.

For a moment, he debated walking back over the slushy ground and returning to the castle without saying anything else. It was a political party after all. All political parties had their agendas, it was just a matter of finding a selfish agenda to match one's own. It was silly to imagine them as anything else.

Harry had stared at the lady with only one good eye. "I...don't know if I oppose the Ministry of Magic," he said. "But I oppose division and fear of non-magical people."

She stared back at him, fierce and unflinching and she reminded him of Tonks all over again.

"Is there a place for me here?" he had asked. Too late to take the words back now, too late to turn around and walk back over the autumn grounds. "I've been looking for some new people to stand near."

It was then that she had smiled.

"Henrietta Crimsonchin." She had stuck out her scarred hand, and her sleeve had ridden up to expose the Dark Mark tattooed on her smooth arm, all black ink and twining lines. "Anarchist witch for the betterment of Britain."

He shook her hand without hesitation.

* * *

"You're dealing with sketchy people," Ron said. "You should watch who you're talking to."

They —Harry, Ron, Hermione, Luna, and Neville— were seated in the Gryffindor common room, arranged haphazardly in a semi-circle around a fireplace. Everything was red and gold and it was _warm_.

"There's nothing wrong with not supporting the Ministry on everything," Hermione replied, thumbing through the pages of a thick, red book. "Besides, it's hardly the Symbionese Liberation Army."

"The what?" Ron wrinkled his nose in confusion. "And that's not what I meant. I mean...Harry's a war hero, but there's a lot of _stuff_ floating around about him. Rumours. He doesn't need any more publicity, right Harry?"

Harry was inclined to agree. Though Hogwarts shielded him from the prying eyes of over-eager reporters and people desperate to make a quick sickle selling his story, he didn't want to aggravate the situation. He recalled the awkward interactions of stunned first years that he encountered in the hallway.

"Right," he echoed.

"A lot of those people have taken the Mark, and that makes them suspect," chimed in Neville. He hadn't said much that evening, resigned to the space in front of the fireplace, back lit with the warm, orange glow of flames that drenched everything in the common room. "They aren't _new_, they've been in the news a couple of times, but they're getting a lot of new support. A lot of people really don't like Shacklebolt."

Ron looked skeptical, first at Neville, then at Harry, then at the floor, then back up at Neville. "Maybe it doesn't matter what we think of him," he said. "He's a hell of a lot better than _Fudge_ was, and he's the _Minster of Magic_."

"Whatever you decide to do, I'm sure it's for good reason," Hermione said. Her attention was still focused on Harry. "Like it or not, you're an example. An icon. Honestly. If you endorse something, you're setting an example."

"I'm not endorsing anything," Harry replied, struggling to keep his voice calm and level. "I went and _talked_ to some _people_. You make it sound like I've joined up with the protesters and taken to storming the Ministry. I'm not hanging around Hogsmeade on weekends and demanding the destruction of the Ministry."

"We know." Hermione's hands were wrapped around that red book, knuckles all white, skin stretched.

"I've got this covered." Harry crossed and uncrossed his legs. "Really. I'm just taking to as many people as I can. Getting the feel of things again. Just because Voldemort is dead doesn't mean everything is going to fall back into place. A lot of things are still chaotic and dangerous."

They fell into an uncomfortable silence.

"You know," Luna began slowly, "I've discovered that Salamanders get very bothered by loud music."

Harry felt his spine relax.

* * *

They wandered out to Hogsmeade the next Saturday early that morning. It was the very beginning of November, and snow had fallen on the ground the previous night, leaving the trails white and the trees iced over.

Luna was leaning over to Malfoy and speaking in his ear, breaths of hot, opaque air dissolving around his face and into his slicked hair. Harry briefly wondered if Malfoy's hair could freeze like that, or if it only _looked_ wet. Maybe he'd charmed it.

Harry decided not to dwell on Malfoy's hair.

He could see Ginny from across the span of snow, talking to a few Hufflepuff fifth year girls. They giggled, pointing at other figures crossing the snowy paths. Mostly boys. Harry braced himself for a surge of jealousy, but it did not come and he was instantly grateful. He didn't have a reason or a need or a wanting to be jealous, after all.

On to bigger and better things.

He cast a sideways glance at Malfoy.

Bigger, at least. The jury was still out on whether the blond Slytherin was better. Better fuck, maybe, but that was as far as it went, he told himself. As far as it went. A better fuck.

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and slouched after Hermione and Ron, who bickered good-naturedly over economics in the Wizarding world. If dating Hermione had done anything for the Weasley boy, it had made him far more attentive to the "issues." Harry supposed this was a good thing, if only because it made him and Hermione happy.

He stared down at his feet.

"Harry," Luna cried. He felt her lean up against him, snapping him from his introspection.

"What?" Harry's head jerked up. His eyes fell on the pair of blonds —they really did look similar— and he waved with the tips of his fingers.

"We're going to get something to drink," Luna said. "You're coming with us?"

He followed them into the Three Broomsticks.

It was dustier than he remembered it being. The tables had been moved, and it was mostly empty. It seemed Hogsmeade wasn't as popular as it had been in years past, which Harry assumed a reasonable effect of war.

Rosmerta waved at them. "You're the first I've seen all day," she said. She shrugged and turned back to her cleaning —the bar, white rag— mumbling about how it was still early.

It was almost half-past noon.

They arranged themselves around one of the tables. Ron and Hermione were squished against each other, still bickering about economics, though Harry absently noticed that they had switched sides in the argument.

Malfoy was squished between Neville and Luna, who were carrying on an animated conversation about the eating habits of hippogriffs and their allergy to various plant matter. Harry watched Malfoy squirm uncomfortably.

"So Harry," Ron said, claiming Harry's attention by wiggling his fingers in front of Harry's face, "what do _you_ think about muggle-born stimulus packages?"

Harry wrinkled his nose. Ron didn't care about economics. "Um...if people lost stuff in the war, it should be replaced with funds taken from death eater estates. But only to reimburse them because otherwise it really sets off the balance."

"What's this?" Malfoy's voice cut in. "Boy wonder supports thievery?"

The table went rather quiet. Hippogriffs and herbology would have to wait.

"It's hardly thievery," Ron pointed out. "Considering that a lot of pureblood families are responsible for the losses sustained by muggle-borns."

Hermione looked pleased and took absent sips of her orange juice. Who orders orange juice? Not Harry. Not anyone else. Hermione, apparently.

"My family didn't do—"

"You're a bad example, Malfoy," Neville said. "Because your family _did_ to a lot of really horrid things during the war." He cast a sidelong glance at Rosmerta, who was no longer wiping the counter. Instead she had halted, halfway through her motions. She listened, head tilted, until Harry caught her eye and she returned to her scrubbing.

"I'm going back to the school," Harry said abruptly. He got to his feet. "I'll see you lot later."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but said nothing. She slid her steely gaze on Malfoy.

Still nothing.

Harry paid his tab, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked briskly out into the cold afternoon.

* * *

**Hey, it was an interruption, but we're totally back.**  
**Drama drama drama.**

**We love you lot.**


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